Lovehammer GE: Primarch Origins
by Bloody Mary
Summary: Companion stories to Lovehammer GE: Serene Star. Here you will see the reborn Sailor Senshi learn how to live in the new universe, and the Primarchs rise to greatness.
1. The Watcher and the Wind I

**AN** Given that the Senshi will be reborn, they will have new names. I'll let you guess who is the Senshi and which one she is, and post the answer at the end of the story arc.

This story comes almost directly after "Broken Star - Purpose" in "Lovehammer GE: Serene Star".

**The Watcher and the Wind**

The wind was strong that night. It howled like a wounded beast, as it chased the thick, dirty clouds across the night sky. Qamar had run off to feel it, knowing she would likely not have an opportunity to do so any time soon. It teased her short hair and bit into her exposed cheeks and arms, filling her with an odd sense of freedom.

She wanted to be closer to the sky. Without thinking, she scrambled onto the roof of an old, crumbling refinery. Her hands and knees were scratched from climbing, and her body shivered with exertion, but the girl-child felt it was worth it. Alone like this with only her and the wind, she felt different. For the first time in her life, she felt…

The moment burst like a bubble, when she spotted another. A child, like her, lying flat on the roof. She froze, undecided. Instinctively, she looked up, following his gaze. The sky was dotted with white glowing pinpricks of light. For the first time in her life, she was seeing the stars.

Then, movement caught her eye. The boy sat up and turned his head towards her. His eyes were grey and curious.

For a moment, they stared at one another, before she fled.

* * *

Cthonia was not a world for the weak. Perhaps ages ago, it had been different, but the age when it was inhabited by honest working men and women was long past, their only legacy being the ancient mines honeycombing the world's crust.

Qamar darted through the corridors, as she crossed the no-man's land on her way back. It never paid to be careless, especially if one was still young. A child was an easy target, a way to force its parents to switch teams or give over valuables. If one was lucky.

She relaxed fractionally, when she noticed the familiar markings on the walls. She was entering the territory of the Black Hearts, the gang to which her brother belonged. Soon enough she slipped past the sentry—it wasn't that hard, given that he was asleep.

She didn't stop weaving and hiding, until she finally snuck into the part of the gang's den she and her brother shared. She carefully pushed the curtain that separated their space from that of the others and breathed out in relief. He was still asleep and she wouldn't have to explain herself.

Last time she had tried to sneak out, he spent an hour lecturing her on the dangers that awaited her. On how she could get caught or lead a rival gang to their hideout, how it was irresponsible…

But none of this had happened. Qamar knew that she could be like the wind, if she tried hard enough. None would catch her.

* * *

There were many unused passages in the Cthonian mines. Sometimes decades could pass before someone used such a corridor. The one he chose now was covered in a thick carpet of dust. Carefully, he wiped out his footprints, at the same time trying to keep an eye on what was going on in front of him. It was not easy, but he managed. He was used to moving like this.

Life would have been much easier, had he joined one of the gangs, but somehow it did not feel right. There was something more important he would need to do. The nagging feeling that there was something else kept him away from the other humans.

It was not their violence—he knew the same destructive tendencies lurked in his heart. The best answer he could give was that it was not yet time. Something needed to happen first.

There was something still waiting for him.

* * *

Tael came running, breathless and excited. Qamar was not particularly impressed with the scout— with the certainty of an eight-year-old she thought she would not have been out of breath. It was really unfair that they kept her away from all the excitement and insisted she was too young for nearly everything.

"Off-worlders," Tael puffed, bent in a half as she tried to catch her breath.

Qamar perked up instantly—she was not the only one who felt a flush of excitement at the word. Everyone knew the stories. That they were descendants of people from the stars, that there were other human worlds scattered across the galaxy… For years, those had been merely old-wives' tales, but in the last few years strange people had started appearing on Cthonia.

They obviously had no idea where they were and how carefully they ought to tread. They knew nothing of where the no-man's land ended and how to avoid ambushes. So far, several gangs had caught those newcomers and made examples of them.

And yet, they kept on coming.

The Black Hearts smelled their chance and started shouting questions at Tael.

"How many?"

"Do they have weapons?"

"What did they look like?"

It reminded her of the time the Black Hearts had gone against the Rippers. There had been the same under-current of violence and excitement in the air as they prepared. Guns were loaded, knives were sharpened. Whoever the off-worlders were, they would learn the folly of traversing gang-territories.

* * *

It had been unfair. Qamar was not a baby and found the idea of being left behind like a little child to be an unforgivable insult. She was not going to stay behind. As soon as the ambush party left, she snuck off behind it. It was easy. It had always been easy.

She followed the others, taking care to stay out of their eye-sight. She slipped through the shadows and kept quiet, until finally, she could see the off-worlders. It was as intriguing a sight as she had hoped it would be.

There were three odd creatures in red dresses with cowls, surrounded by armed men and women. And then, there was a giant. He wore white armour and his shoulders were covered by the pelt of some animal, its muzzle resting on an enormous pauldron.

How could any gang hope to go against someone like that? Qamar froze, eyes widening in fear as she realized those were not the usual off-worlders. These were not easy prey.

The Black Hearts must have realized the same, but it was too late. Tael fell just as she jumped out of cover, her head blown off her neck by one shot. Others followed, cauterized wounds gaping in their bodies. Not all of the wounds were lethal—her brother merely lost a leg and started crawling away.

The giant snarled something, his tone disgusted, and brought down his armoured foot on the ganger's head.

The next moment, wind was howling through the corridors. It hit the off-worlders and picked them up, tossing them against the walls. Only the giant remained standing. He tried to make a step forward, but stumbled and fell to one knee instead.

Blinded by tears, Qamar could barely see what was happening around her. She didn't care—all that mattered was that her brother was dead. She wanted him back. She wanted him to get up and come to her, but knew this would never happen.

Instead, there was the wind—if she became the wind, the pain would go away. Its wail sounded more real then the mewling sounds of her own sobs. It drowned them, and took the pain with it. She felt as if she were pushing it out, feeding the anger and the grief to the howling gale. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed anymore—just her and the wind. She fell to her knees, shivering, and only then did she realize she had no strength to stand.

She tried to blink away the tears, but her vision wasn't clearing. The wind kept on howling, the sound filling her ears, as she slumped down and darkness claimed her.

* * *

"This was unexpected," Apothecary Caius Iras rumbled.

He looked around, assessing the damage. Several of the soldiers were dead, their necks snapped and the rest were badly bruised. He noticed one woman cradling a broken arm. The adepts had fared better, undoubtedly because of their augmentation, but as far as he could tell they were sore and dazed too.

He knelt down next to the young psyker and started checking the child's vital signs. It was unconscious, but breathing steadily. Having ascertained that it did not need any immediate medical help, he took out a specially prepared syringe with a soporific. He injected it into one of the veins on the child's neck.

As he hovered over it, he heard the clicking steps of one of the adepts.

"We need samples," the adept announced, his voice low and monotone.

"That is why we are here," Iras agreed. "You can take gene-samples from the dead, and we have the little psyker."

"Compliance," the adept replied. The others were also getting to their feet behind them, those less hurt helping those who had not been as fortunate. The adepts were already setting to work, taking blood and skin samples from the dead gangers, as Iras picked the child up.

He wondered if the little psyker would prove of any use to the Luna Wolves.

* * *

Qamar woke up strapped to a bed. A creature with large green eyes and a metal face was bending over her. Behind it, a huge man in white armour loomed. The creature said something but she didn't understand it at all. Then it started flashing lights into her eyes, making them water. She turned her head away, and the creature said something again.

The giant rumbled in response, his words equally incomprehensible.

"Let me out!" she croaked. She strained against the straps holding her down, but could only do so for a moment. A few seconds later she fell back, feeling nauseous and weak.

The giant rumbled something again, his voice cold and stern. He was pale, with wide-set grey eyes. There was something about his face that seemed familiar to her, but she couldn't quite place it.

"Let me out!" she tried again. "Don't you understand me, you dumb, overgrown bastard?"

Her insult did not elicit the expected reaction. The giant chuckled and said something in an approving tone. Qamar snapped at him again, dragging up all invectives she had learned from the Black Hearts, but it was to no avail. The giant did not seem to care.

Then somebody burst in, a young man, and gasped out a message, much like Tael had done not long ago. The giant and the creature froze, and then turned to stare at her. The creature remained unreadable, but the giant was clearly shocked.


	2. The Watcher and the Wind II

**The Watcher and the Wind II**

Cthonia had been left to its fate long ago. Its populace had fallen into anarchy, forgotten by the human civilization—forgotten until only recently. The nascent Imperium of Man might have had a foundation of lofty ideals, but the truth was that ideals did not conquer stars. The Imperium needed teeth, and the gangs of Cthonia had proven vicious and resourceful.

But it was not nearly enough to save the population of that barren world. The young gangers were considered as possible candidates for recruits for one of the newly created Legiones Astartes. Small strike teams had been sent out to catch some of the Cthonian natives and bring them to the gene-forges of Luna. There their genetic viability would be checked, and depending on the results, Cthonia would become a fiefdom of one of the Legions or face extermination.

However, this was about to change. The Master of Mankind announced he would be leaving Terra to oversee the operation himself. The fleet that was already in the system was hurled into a storm of frantic preparation.

Iras was as affected as the human members of the expedition. He double and triple-checked his samples, and hollered at the serfs to be careful. The adepts scuttled around like red ants, chattering in binary almost all the time.

The girl was still strapped to the bed, though Iras decided not to sedate her. After the initial outburst, she kept quiet, watching them in hostile silence. For a moment, he wondered what would become of her, but chased the thought away. This decision would not fall to him. The Emperor was coming to Cthonia because of her, after all.

* * *

"Another girl like me?" Serenity asked, her excitement over the prospect plain to see. She clasped her hands in front of her face and looked up at the Emperor with wide eyes. It seemed that her first time leaving Terra would much more eventful than she—or the Emperor—had expected.

"A girl with a similar Warp-signature," the Emperor clarified. "This does not mean you and her will automatically become the best of friends."

Serenity's expression fell almost instantly, only to perk up a moment later. "But it doesn't mean I won't be able to befriend her at all either, does it?"

"No, it does not mean that," the Emperor confirmed.

Serenity seemed satisfied, her bright smile lighting her face up. She turned away to leave, but stopped mid-turn. She whirled around and faced him, her brows knotted in concentration. "There's something else you're not telling me, Father."

That took him by surprise—it had been so long since someone managed to notice that he was omitting parts of truth. He nodded slowly, contemplating his next words. Was there a point in withholding information from her? She would learn—or remember—sooner or later.

"If the child wields powers similar to yours, then it's likely one of my sons is on Cthonia as well," he answered.

Serenity gasped. "That would be wonderful!"

"If it is true, then it certainly will be very fortunate," the Emperor answered.

Serenity frowned again, puzzled at his subdued reaction.

"Time does not flow in a linear way in the Warp," he said. "My son may be a grown man when we find him. It is very likely that he will have found another family, another father."

Serenity's frown did not fade, as she considered his words. Then, slowly, she looked up at him. "Maybe. You said that time does not flow in a linear way in the Warp. He might as well still be a baby when we arrive."

* * *

Iras regarded the girl with a frown. He didn't much care for her angry glares, but he was quite aware that something needed to be done about her language skills. It was obvious she did not understand High or Low Gothic, and only spoke the guttural tongue of Cthonia. There was a very easy solution to that: hypnoconditioning.

He was certain unstrapping her and getting her to the right place would be a tedious task. On the other hand, he supposed since the initial tests were positive and Cthonians were likely going to prove compatible with Luna Wolves' gene seed, he should get used to handling unwilling youths.

As if aware what he had been thinking, as soon as she had some more mobility, the girl bit into his hand. Iras ignored the small sharp teeth boring into his flesh, not even deigning to respond with a grunt. So she kicked.

For an eight-year-old it was not a bad hit, but Iras hardly felt it. Her small fist connected with his elbow, and then with other parts of his forearm. It barely affected him, though it was annoying.

She tried to bite again, and scratched. Her foot connected several times with his stomach, until finally he had enough and tucked her under his shoulder. Despite her loud screams and continued struggle, Iras started carrying her out. Finally, once they were half-way there, she calmed down.

The Apothecary picked up his pace and soon enough, he could strap the girl into the machine. She glared at him sullenly, but refrained from any further acts of aggression.

Iras stepped back and only then did he wonder why she had not used her powers again. Quickly, he got a dose of soporific and injected it into her arm. He wouldn't give her a chance to use them, if the conditioning proved too much for her to handle.

* * *

Qamar woke up dizzy and sore. She did not remember what had happened after the giant had put her into the machine. Slowly, she tried to sit up, but found herself restrained again. She fell back and swallowed, fighting down nausea. In the corner of her eye, she noticed something move and heard steps.

"Awake?" someone rumbled.

Qamar looked up. Her gaze met the grey eyes of the giant. He appeared to be contemplative.

"Can't you see?" she snapped.

The giant sighed. "Focus, girl. You may understand me, but it does not mean I can understand you."

Startled, Qamar blinked. She did understand him, where she hadn't comprehended a word of what he had been saying before. More importantly, he hadn't stopped talking in his own odd language—somehow, she now understood another language, despite never learning it.

"I understand you…" she breathed.

"Very good," the giant said, sounding pleased.

Qamar glared. "How? What have you done?!"

The giant looked at her impassively. "I used a device to transfer language skills directly into your brain."

Qamar felt her mouth form an "o" as she stared up at the giant. That did not sound possible. Except… except, she understood him now. She had been somehow taught a new language. As she tried to gather her wits, the giant sat down on her bed. It creaked rather ominously under his weight, causing him to frown.

Then he transferred his annoyed stare at Qamar, who met him with her own.

"You have questions. Ask," he said.

"Why am I here? Why didn't you kill me? You killed everyone else!" the girl snapped, the words spilling out in an angry torrent.

It did not affect him. He didn't even flinch when accused of killing the Black Hearts. "You seem to be a powerful psyker. The Emperor himself has expressed an interest in you."

"I'm not going to help you!" Qamar replied quickly. She had no idea what a psyker was or who the Emperor was, but she could guess the meaning of his words.

The giant cocked his head and seemed to consider her words. "And if that means I will kill you?"

The girl's eyes went wide as she remembered how easily her brother's head had been crushed. Involuntarily, tears rose to her eyes, but she blinked them away angrily. She was not going to cry—she would not give him this satisfaction.

"W-what's a psyker and who's the Emperor?" she asked instead.

"A psyker is a human being who can use the Warp to do things otherwise impossible—like you summoning wind. The Emperor is the ruler of Mankind. He will bring it together and conquer the galaxy," the giant explained.

His words did not explain too much, but she could at least guess what was happening. This Emperor was interested in her because she was an asset, like somebody skilled with a gun might be to a gang-leader.

"Your fate will be in his hands, girl," the giant said. "Just like the fate of Cthonia. Impress him, and you will be made part of the greatest endeavour."

"Why are you telling me this? Why do you care?" she asked, now genuinely puzzled. It almost seemed like he wanted her to impress the big honcho.

"You've proven strong, girl," he said. "It would be a pity to waste your strength."

Then he rose, leaving her understanding him even less than she had done when she could not understand his words.

* * *

Being fitted into power armour was completely unlike trying on a new dress. For one, her father was present while the servitors placed the armour on her. Then there was the silence—nobody was commenting on how it would fit her or what would match. Servitors were not known as skilled conversationalists.

There was another difference. A dress she would have chosen herself. She would have been able to tell what colour she wanted it to be and what design it should be—not so with power armour. Of course, she was quite aware that she had little knowledge of how power armour worked and how it was made, and so was not likely to influence the overall shape, but she would at least have liked to have a say in matters of colour and ornament.

Then again, colour was hardly important. What mattered was what it represented—her father was starting to think of her as not just a fragile flower that needed to be sheltered and kept away. He really did intend to take her with him to unite mankind. She would not have to stay behind.

Experimentally, she rolled her shoulders.

"How does it feel?" the Emperor asked.

Serenity frowned slightly as she made a few experimental steps. Then, as she prepared to jump, she felt her father's hand on her shoulders. "That is not the best idea."

Serenity blinked and then realization dawned. Power armour would increase her strength—that of her legs as well. If she had jumped up, she might have ended up hitting something and she did not have a Space Marine's skull. She swallowed nervously and stifled an awkward giggle. "I need to be more careful…"

"You will learn," her father said, pushing her gently towards the door. "We need to make a few tests and see if the armour needs corrections."

* * *

Serenity quickly found out that travelling on a space ship was not as much of an adventure as she had hoped it would be. Other than getting used to her power armour, nothing remotely interesting happened. And nobody understood her disappointment. Father had merely commented that excitement was the last thing anybody wanted when the only thing protecting fragile human lives was steel, ceramite and void shields.

Then he asked her to explain to him why one of those boring old tyrants had lost some stupid battle. Serenity had stumbled through what she had learned; quite aware she had not been paying enough attention to her studies. Once she was finished, her father shook his head and calmly started explaining all the things she had not understood, somehow making the dead people and dry facts become alive and fascinating.

And yet… and yet, she could not focus. There was still something on her mind, something she could not push away.

"What will she be like?" she asked. "And what will he be like?"

She met her father's eyes and saw the emotion behind the stoic mask. It was such an odd thought, so improbable and yet, she could not help but wonder if he was not as uneasy as she was.

"Our reports say that Cthonia is a brutal world," he said, looking away, as if was gazing at the distant world they were heading to. "It's a world where the strong prosper and the weak are subjugated or killed."

She frowned in concentration, as she considered his words. "But… you made the Primarchs. You said you implanted knowledge into them—does it really matter where they grow up?"

The Emperor nodded. "Yes, Serenity, it does. I gave them knowledge of languages, of tactics, but I intended to teach them what they could and should and shouldn't do with those knowledge and skills myself. I could not implant that… The worlds on which my sons will grow up on will also shape them."

Serenity almost pointed out he had only answered half her question, but something made her hold her tongue. Instead, she tried to think of what she knew about those mysterious seeds of souls that came with her. She had never managed to remember anything definite—only flashes and impressions: a fiery bow, a harpist in the fog… Nevertheless, she was the one with the knowledge, not her father.

"I… think they… the women – I think they will be women – that will grow from the seeds… will be the same," she said finally. "The world of origin will shape them."

The Emperor nodded and impulsively, Serenity embraced him. Perhaps the girl from Cthonia and the Primarch would be savage and blood-thirsty. Perhaps. It did not change the fact that they would both join her father's Crusade.

"We will still unite mankind," she said firmly.

* * *

The small group was not like the gangs. They were disciplined, unlike the unruly natives. Instead of shouting and strutting confidently, those newcomers moved carefully, like predators on the hunt.

A woman in golden armour was at the point, followed, though not too closely, by a uniformed group. Then three beings in red robes and several uniformed ones, and finally a person in white armour. The boy had been tailing them, careful not to be caught. Perhaps it would have been wiser to keep away, but his curiosity won over caution.

They were careful, but moved purposefully, stalking, rather than skulking through the abandoned mines. So far, following them without being spotted was the hardest test he had put himself through. He couldn't let his guard down even for a moment, and had to remain watchful. Those newcomers could be different, but he knew too little of them to let himself be discovered. He had yet to find out if they were those he was waiting for.

The woman gestured, and the boy knew she meant they ought to stop. The next sign meant "bodies." Then she made two more hand-signs: "Long dead."

The uniformed ones spread out, covering the corridor, as the beings in red robes approached the bodies. From his hiding place, he could not see what they were doing to the bodies, only that they knelt around them. He heard them chatter, but this time he did not understand what was being said.

Finally, as he nearly lost hope that he would ever learn why the bodies interested the newcomers and why they were… worried? The red-robed creatures scuttled away.

"I can confirm with 85.67% certainty that the victims died due to activity of one of the local gangs," one of the red robed beings droned in an odd metallic monotone. He did not speak the guttural tongue of Cthonia, but a language the boy could understand. "Despite the progressing decomposition, we have been able to extrapolate the causes of death: in three cases, the victims died of blood-loss caused by gunshots; in one, because of a multitude of stab wounds."

"Why were they left here?" rumbled the armoured person.

"We do not posses enough data to accurately judge the motives of the Cthonian gang-members," the creature replied. "Furthermore, as Biologos, we do not-"

He trailed off when the woman stepped closer to him, holding out a hand to silence him. The boy did not blame him—he was far away, and yet her presence made him feel uneasy. "They are marking their territory," she signed.

The armoured person shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Sister."

With that, several of the uniformed ones gathered the dead bodies. The boy heard the clinking of fallen coins, and realized that whoever had killed that small group long before must have placed them on their eyes. He had seen bodies laid out like this often enough.

He wondered if they were here to bring the bodies of their kin back, but the newcomers did not turn back. As soon as the bodies were secured and hidden in black glossy bags, they started moving into the gang territory again.

The boy hesitated. He had been avoiding the gangs so far and did not see any reason to change this. But if he wanted to learn the intentions of the newcomers he had to follow them. Slowly, he started creeping behind them again, keeping to the shadows. It wasn't long before they met a gang sentry. The young man hardly had time to react as the woman slammed her armoured fist into his face. Bones shattered and he fell back, his face a bloody mess.

The boy frowned—had the newcomers only come to kill? No, there had to be more to their effort. He followed them further, and watched what them kill several more gang members. But then, instead of murdering all, they rounded up the rest and marched them away.

The boy did not follow them back, deciding it would be safer to hide for now. He needed to think.


	3. The Watcher and the Wind III

**The Watcher and the Wind III**

Qamar had found Iras' anxiety incredibly funny. He had been pacing, re-arranging all those mysterious devices and finally bellowed at the machine-men—servitors—to clean the floor for the seventh time. Then, inexplicably, he decided to undo the straps that were holding her down. She sat up, confused, just as the door opened, and suddenly Iras' behaviour did not seem irrational at all.

The being that stepped into the Apothecarion could not be human—human beings did not radiate this kind of power. She could physically feel that the man who entered could crush her like a fly with a mere thought. Suddenly, she felt sick, thinking back to the moment when she had assumed this was just a bigger gang leader—how could she ever have thought this?

She swallowed convulsively, and-

And felt herself calmed. There was another presence in the room. A girl, only a few years older than her, but somehow her presence made the blinding, burning aura of the man easier to bear. She still could not look upon him, but now she had somebody else to focus on.

The girl was quite pretty, Qamar decided, but what really caught her attention was the armour. It was white with gold and silver decorations, but the one that drew Qamar's eye most was the eagle that was spreading its wings over the girl's breast.

"She's staring at me, Father," the girl whispered.

"I am not staring!" Qamar snapped indignantly. "I'm… I'm…"

She trailed off, her gaze turning back to the man. Somehow his attention made her feel like an insect being studied.

"Come here, child," the man said. His voice… his voice was the most awe-inspiring sound she had ever heard. Her anger and discomfort forgotten, she climbed down from the bed obediently and padded over to him. Then, the man turned his attention to the girl at his side. "What can you sense, Serenity?"

The girl—Serenity—frowned in concentration. "Wind," she said finally. "An unruly hurricane."

Qamar stared, uncertain what was happening. Was the other girl talking about her or was she merely a spectator to a spectacle she was not meant to understand? Then the girl touched her cheek with her fingertips. Qamar felt the smooth cool metal brush against her flesh, and met the warm blue eyes of the girl in front of her.

"I think she's scared," Serenity said, and Qamar felt her amazement become something more familiar. Red, hot anger filled her. She was not afraid of some soft, pampered princess! Reflexively, she tried to slap the girl's hand.

That had been a serious mistake. Her palm connected with the armoured digits and Qamar heard an unpleasant crack. Sharp blinding pain bloomed in her hand and she stumbled away, clutching it.

"Oh," Serenity said. "I'm sorry—I didn't want to startle you."

"That hurts!" Qamar howled at the top of her lungs. Almost without thinking, she tried to push the pain away, waking the wind again. It rushed forward, howling wildly.

Serenity brought her hands up to shield herself, her long hair whipping behind her and slipping out of the pony-tail it had been bound into. Even in armour, she had no chance to withstand the tempest-

Then the man was behind Serenity, holding her in place. He held up his palm and the wind died away, until the air was still again. This time, Qamar could not avert her gaze and met the golden eyes of the man. They bored into her, and she felt like her very soul was being judged. Then, after what seemed like ages, he spoke, "She is one of them."

She sunk to her knees, spent, feeling dread seep into her. What was she? She had not thought about it, but now that the man named her as a member of some unspecified larger whole, she could not help but to wonder. Where was the wind coming from?

* * *

Serenity was quite disappointed with Qamar—not only was she still a little child, she was also more like a wild animal than a human being. Her father had been right; growing up on a feral world meant that they were separated by a large gulf. But she would not be herself, if she did not try to make it disappear.

First, she needed to know if she and the girl had anything in common, other than powers that came from the same source. It would have been much easier had the girl had any family on board or if they had some common friends, but given that those were lacking, she could only think of one course of action—she had to spend more time with the girl.

She did not take any of her old toys (and come to think of it, she doubted that wildcat of a girl would have wanted a doll), but she could easily get her hands on some sweets. After a moment of consideration, she had a servitor fetch a bar of chocolate and went to the part of the ship the girl was now staying in.

It didn't take her long to get there. She knocked on the door, announcing her intent to enter, and then, when no answer was forthcoming, entered a code that made it slide open.

"What do you want from me?" the girl snapped, as soon as Serenity was in her sight.

"I wanted to talk with you," Serenity answered, trying to surreptitiously look around. It seemed like the girl had not made herself at home yet. Only the bed showed signs of being used—it was where the child was huddled, glaring daggers at her from under a blanket.

"Well, I don't want to talk to you," the girl answered angrily.

Serenity was not used to such reactions to her presence. She didn't expect people to act as awed as around her father, but outright hostility was not something she had been faced with before. Not such intense and irrational rejection.

"Why not?" she asked. "I'm sorry about your hand, but it wouldn't have happened if you hadn't tried hitting me. Power armour is very hard."

The girl gave her a confused look, as if this was not the answer she had expected. While it was hardly encouraging, Serenity decided to press on. "I didn't manage to introduce myself. I am Serenity, and you?"

Now the girl's expression was pure, unadulterated disbelief. "Are you for real?" she stammered.

Serenity frowned. That was really not going well. "Excuse me?"

"Stop acting like that!" the girl cried angrily. "Go away! I don't want you!"

"What is your problem?" Serenity snapped. Here she was trying to be nice and friendly and the little brat was so very ungrateful!

"You killed my brother!" the girl replied without thinking. Startled, Serenity noticed the child was crying. Her first instinct was to rush over to her and hug her, but she remained away despite it. The girl could not have meant her personally, but likely the party that had found her on Cthonia.

Suddenly, she wished she had thought to read the report her father undoubtedly received. Perhaps it would have been boring, but she would not be unprepared. She would know what to say.

She went over to the girl's bed. Slowly, carefully, she sat down on it.

"Please, I didn't know that," she said. "Tell me what happened."

As she spoke, she tried to reach out to the girl. She focused on the feeling of calm and warmth, trying to make the child feel that whatever she had been, Serenity would accept her. After a moment, it seemed to be working, and finally the girl started telling her what happened. As she listened, Serenity started chewing on her lower lip.

The girl's brother was dead, killed by one of the Luna Wolves. His death had been needlessly brutal, but something was not right. She thought back to her father's words—Cthonia was a brutal world, were the natives fought one another. Violence was a way of life, and the little girl was a product of this world. This was holding her down, chaining her to her own suffering—she had to make the child see that there was more then just death and cruelty.

"What would your brother do, if the Black Hearts were attacked by another gang?" she asked.

The girl gave her confused look. "He'd kill them."

Softly, Serenity replied, "That is no different then from what Apothecary Iras did. He was protecting himself and the party. Was he to let your friends kill him and his companions, only because your brother was fighting against them?"

"I don't care about your stupid apothecary," the girl snarled. "I want my brother back! He'd be alive if you hadn't come!"

The answer took Serenity aback completely. That somebody could so completely disregard others and only care about their own did not cross her mind. She looked at the child coolly, and then asked: "And how many of those your brother killed had sisters or brothers who suffered after they died?"

"That's the way things are!" the girl snapped. "If you're stupid or weak, you get killed!"

"Well, then," Serenity said frostily, "I guess your brother was too stupid to live."

* * *

Serenity was angry—angry at the little brat for not being capable of understanding elementary things and at herself, for getting so angry with a stupid brat. She was angry with the idiotic world that produced children like that, and she was scared. She was scared that the son her father wanted to find so badly would turn out to be just like the girl, and that the girl would lash out at someone Serenity liked.

She curled up on her bed and sobbed into her pillow. There was no way she was ever talking with the little nasty brat again. Powers like hers or not, there was simply no way she and the girl could have anything in common.

What was she even doing here? She should go back to Terra and…

Serenity sat up, wiping the tears away angrily. Go back and what? Hadn't she asked to come because back on Terra she would be a mere ornament? Yes, it would be comfortable, far more pleasant than trying to deal with a prickly little girl, but…

But Merir wouldn't have given up, would he? What would he say, if she'd left now just because of an unpleasant eight-year-old? Her frown deepened. What was it about the child that made her incapable of just forgetting her? Whatever it was, it was too elusive to grasp.

With a sigh, she fell back on her bed and closed her eyes. She was never ever going to have children—the little nuisances were just too difficult. How her father had wanted to bring up twenty of them at once she could not guess.

* * *

Iras had not expected to see the girl. And yet, when he entered the Apothecarion, she was perched on her old bed, next to its new occupant. The new subject did not appear to be happy about her presence, given the frown on his face, but the girl seemed to be unbothered.

"Why didn't you kill him?" she asked accusingly, pointing at the youth.

Iras arched his eyebrows. "I will answer your questions, child, but only if you answer mine," he replied.

The girl appeared to be taken aback at first, but then nodded slowly. "Sounds fair."

Iras looked at the youth for a moment. "We need live subjects to see if Cthonians are compatible with our gene seed. They need to be young—no older than fifteen—and strong. This one meets the criteria."

The girl did not seem to be satisfied with the answer. "So you killed my brother because he was too old?"

Iras scratched his shaved head. This was not going to go smoothly. "Which one was your brother?"

The girl gave him a shocked look, as if the thought that he would not know had never entered her mind, before saying indignantly, "The one on whose head you stepped!"

With a frown, the Apothecary started remembering the encounter with the gang. Yes, he did recall killing one of the Cthonians that way. "Three reasons: he was running away and missing his leg. It would have been cruel to leave a cripple alive on a planet like yours, and a cowardly one at that."

The girl gave an indignant sound, as if searching for a denial, but Iras was not finished. "The third reason is more general. You, your people, don't understand anything but force. If we left anyone who attacked us alive, more would try attacking us, and more would die. Sometimes the few must die for the good of the many."

"But I don't care about the many!" the girl snapped.

Iras shrugged. He was quite certain he would hear those words often enough. As long as it was a child that did not know any better, he could tolerate it. "And the universe does not care about you, child. Neither did it care about your brother. There is no luck, and no fate that will guarantee that those you care about will live."

He knelt down, so that he was almost face to face with the girl. "You live in a cruel galaxy, child, but you are fortunate. Through the death of your brother, you found that you are one of the few that wield astounding power. Through his death, we have found you—we who can teach you how to wield your powers, and who can protect you."

The girl swallowed. "You're telling me this because I'm strong and you want me to use my wind for your Emperor, aren't you?"

Iras nodded. "Yes. But not only because of that. Imagine two gangs fighting one another. If one is stronger, then it will win. If their strength is the same, both will be wiped out. But if one gang bands with another, together they can stop those that would be otherwise stronger than them. They may not like each other, but on the grand scale, it will mean little compared to the benefits they will reap. Humanity is billions of such gangs. Imagine what power we may wield when united."

The girl looked at him wide-eyed. Then, her expression returned to neutrality, and she said, "You wanted me to answer your question."

Iras nodded. "Have you seen anyone who looked like me on Cthonia?"

The girl shook her head. "We had no giants."

Iras frowned. Perhaps he had phrased his question the wrong way. "The person I'm asking about could still be a child. He'd look similar to me, in the sense that my face would look familiar. Maybe he'd have eyes like mine or a similar nose…"

For a while, the girl studied his face with an intent expression. Then, finally, her eyes lit up in recognition. "Yes. There was a boy-"

Her answer turned into a squawk of protest, as Iras unceremoniously grabbed her, tugged her under his arm and rushed to ask for an audience with the Emperor of Mankind.

* * *

The sky was clear again. It surprised him—he had not expected it to clear anytime soon, but he climbed on the roof of one of the abandoned refineries nonetheless. He gazed up and froze. The sky looked completely different. There were new shapes, new pinpricks of light moving in what appeared to be a slow coordinated dance.

Did this have anything to do with the newcomers? The events seemed to happen too close to one another to be unrelated. Before he could analyse the situation further, he heard the roof creak behind him. Startled, he turned around and found himself staring into the golden eyes of an unfamiliar man.

No, not unfamiliar. He did not know who this man was or where he had come from, but he was certain he was the one he had been waiting for. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, then another one. The man knelt down and now they were at eye-level. He opened his arms, and this time the boy did not hesitate. He rushed into the embrace.

"I have been looking for you, Horus," the man—his father—said. For a moment, Horus was tempted to just let his father take him away, but his natural curiosity quickly resurfaced. He had so many questions he wanted to ask, but as he glimpsed the sky over his father's shoulder, one came to the forefront.

"Where did you come from?" Horus asked. "You don't speak the language of Cthonia."

His father sat him down, before sitting down next to him on the roof. Now they both could look up to the sky.

"I came from Terra, the cradle of mankind," he said. "The galaxy is vast, my son, and mankind is scattered on many different planets, just like you and your brothers are."

Horus looked at his father with wide eyes, taking in what he was being told.

"I have created you and your brothers to help me with my endeavour," his father continued, reaching out as if he wanted to scoop the glittering lights in the sky into his hand. "The stars are mankind's birthright. Those points of light are what we have been waiting generations to master. Imagine, Horus, every one a human culture, every one a realm of beauty and magnificence, free from strife, free from war, free from bloodshed and tyrannous oppression of alien overlords. "

Horus stared up as, enchanted by the magnificence of the vision. Now, next to his father, he was starting to remember things he had never had learned and yet knew. Each star in the sky could be orbited by many worlds, and those in turn could be inhabited by scattered offshoots of humanity. Others would be under the rule of xenos, and yet others awaited discovery.

He felt his father's hand on his shoulder and turned his head to face him. Horus felt that the next words he would hear would be far more important than anything he had learned before, and listened attentively, as his father spoke.

"Make no mistake, and they will be ours."

* * *

Finding Horus had come as a great relief. He was still a boy, and had avoided being found by the Cthonians. What he would become lay entirely in the Emperor's hands. Perhaps the others would not be entirely what he had intended them to be, but this one… this one would be his son.

He had watched him read the astrological primer he had given him with such avid interest that he had to smile. Of course, he had known that his sons would thirst for knowledge, but seeing it confirmed and knowing this thirst had not been dulled by the dark world the boy had lived on so far brought him peace and a sense of joy.

He had left him with the book, letting the boy study it in peace, only to meet Serenity standing outside with a pout. That had surprised him, but then, news always travelled fast.

"Why didn't you introduce him to me?" she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and radiating insulted feelings like a small sun.

"Because it's late," the Emperor replied placidly. "Why are you not in bed?"

Serenity huffed. "I wanted to greet my brother," she said angrily. "And you didn't let me."

"It was not my intention," the Emperor replied, and placed his hand on Serenity's shoulder. "If it is so important to you that you must meet your adoptive brother now, I will not stop you."

As soon as she heard the permission, Serenity brushed past him and marched into the room. When he turned around to watch, the Emperor saw Horus raise his head and give Serenity a puzzled look.

"Hello?" he said.

"Horus, this is your adoptive sister, Serenity." The Emperor stepped in, before his rash daughter could speak. "Serenity, this is Horus."

The two watched one another, before Serenity curtsied politely. "I'm pleased to meet you."

Horus smiled at her in response. "So am I," he replied. "Would you like to see what father gave me?"

Serenty wavered for a moment, before walking over and looking over Horus's shoulder on the book he was reading. "Zodiac?" she asked.

Horus nodded and grinned. "I always loved stars. When the sky would clear, I would watch them and wonder about them, what they were and what meaning they have. And now I know…"

Serenity cocked her head, as she flicked through the pages. "Which one is your favourite?"

Horus blinked. "I like them all. The Leos is regal and furious, the Skorpos is armoured and bladed, like a warrior. The Tauromach is stubborn, and so am I, while the Arbites is fair and balance, like I hope to be…"

"And you cannot think of one that would fit you most?" the Emperor asked, curious. When Horus shook his head, he reached to the book and flicked through the pages, until he found the one sign he was looking for. "This is the Dreadful Sagittary—most warlike of all."

The two turned to look at him, two fascinated faces watching him as he spoke. "Strong, relentless, unbridled, swift and sure of his mark. In ancient times, it was the greatest sign of all. The centaur, the horse-man, the hunter-warrior, had been beloved in the old ages. In Anatoly, where I was born, the centaur had been a revered symbol. A rider upon a horse, armed with a bow; the most potent martial instrument of its age, conquering all before it. Over time myth had blended horseman and steed into one form." As he spoke, he traced the lines of the depiction in the book: the bow, the horse's body and the human torso. "The perfect synthesis of man and warmachine."

Gently, he placed his hands on Horus's shoulders. "This is what you must learn to be. That is what you must master. One day, you must command my armies, my instruments of war, as if they were an extension of your own person. Man and horse, as one, galloping the heavens, submitting to no foe."

Serenity and Horus both gazed at him in silence, each contemplating what they had heard. He saw fire in Horus's eyes, one that he had hoped to kindle. Serenity appeared to be thoughtful. Was she thinking back to their conversation back on Terra, when she had told him she wanted to find her purpose?

Then, as if sensing that something was amiss, Horus took Serenity's hand and asked, "Are you hungry? We could eat something and read the book together."

Serenity lit up instantly, though the Emperor suspected the prospect of food was more inviting than literary enjoyment. Still, he could see that Horus was showing great promise already. His Dreadful Sagittary would work wonders yet.

The chamber was large and nearly bare, save for a number of weights. Qamar knew she was being watched, but the red-robed creature—an Adept—and the Emperor were safely outside, where they could not suffer any harm. Perhaps if it had only been the Adept, she would have refused, but the thought of saying no to the Emperor made her feel sick. One did not say no to someone like him. She exhaled and focused, trying to summon the wind.

To her surprise it came willingly. It seemed so easy that she had to wonder why it had taken her so long to awaken the power. At first, the weights tumbled away towards the wall, but then as the wind grew stronger, they were picked up and tossed away. Soon enough even the heaviest weight had been sent flying.

She let the wind die down and waited for the door to open. Soon enough the Adept scuttled in, his steps clicking oddly against the floor. It looked at her, green lights where its eyes ought to be, and made a few clicking sounds, before addressing her.

"You are free for today," it said. "Please be present in this location in twenty four hours, and we shall conduct further tests."

The Emperor followed. He looked down at Qamar, his gaze holding neither approval, nor disappointment—only cold clinical interest. "Come, child," he said.

Qamar nodded and obediently trotted along. Several times, she tried to gather her courage to ask the Emperor if somebody else could oversee whatever he wanted her to do, but whenever she opened her mouth the words died in her throat. Would he even listen?

"You will never know, if you do not ask, child," the Emperor said.

Qamar all but jumped, but finally started stammering through her request. "Could maybe… somebody else… maybe… m-maybe Iras-"

"Apothecary Iras has other duties," the Emperor replied. Perhaps he intended to continue or maybe this was all he had wanted to say. Qamar would not find out. Two voices interrupted them, carrying clearly through the corridor.

"-er is spending too much time with you," the Princess, Serenity, was saying.

"He's teaching me," a boy countered. "We could ask if you can learn with me, if you want to."

Qamar felt the Emperor's hand touch her shoulder, holding her back. She looked up and for a moment she thought he looked apprehensive, but then she decided she was just seeing things. He appeared to be only curious.

"He'll say I have my own lessons to learn," Serenity said. "And besides, you had all those things stuffed into your head before you were cast into the Warp. I wouldn't understand any of it."

From the sound of it, the two had stopped walking. The boy's answer came only after a moment, as if he had been considering his words.

"Well, I could teach you what I know and then we could ask Father, and surprise him," he said, sounding surprisingly enthusiastic at the prospect of teaching someone like Serenity.

Serenity sighed heavily, and then, to Qamar's surprise, giggled. "If this goes on you won't need an army to conquer worlds," she said. "You'll just sweet-talk them into compliance."

* * *

**AN: **And since Horus was found, the next parts will be posted in **Serene Star**.

Also, Qamar is the reincarnation of Sailor Uranus.


	4. Thunderstorm I

**Thunderstorm**

The Veringjar were a brave folk. They met their doom with swords and axes in hand, trying to shield their women and children to the last breath. It mattered little in the end. Their homes burned brightly, and the swords of the Russ drank their blood greedily.

Ingmar sobbed, as his home fell apart around him. Bitter tears streamed down his face and sunk into his beard, but still he hacked at his adversaries. A rage, dark and red, rose inside of him, fuelling his muscles to move on and on, despite numerous wounds. He knew he was going to die, and he did not regret it—if he had lived, he would have ended his life as a slave and he would not stand for that. But before he died, he needed to kill the leader of the raid.

He slammed his shield against the jaw of a burly warrior without an eye, and stabbed his blade through his chest. With a fluid motion, he kicked the body off and pressed onwards.

It seemed that he had caught the attention of the leader. She barred his way, already swinging a hammer down on his head. He met it with his shield and felt his arm go numb from the impact.

No woman should be this strong. She was nearly as tall as him, and moved with the speed of a Saeneyti. The second strike caught him in the knee, and he knelt down, but still did not give in. Despite the pain that his shattered bones caused him, he raised his sword, to pierce her belly.

She slid away from it, with the ease of an experienced warrior and her boot crashed against his chin. He felt the bone crack as he fell back. The sky above him was dark with clouds and he wondered if the tales were true.

Was Thorgerd Thengirsdottyr a witch as well as raider?

"Allfather! Your daughter calls upon your wrath!" the woman cried.

Ingmar's eyes went wide as the sky responded. He saw the flash and heard the crackle, and bitterly, he realized none of it was meant for him. The woman thought him defeated.

He smelled charred meat, and in a last attempt, he tried to raise himself. His friends, his brothers, were dying. He cared not if it was witchery or the will of the gods—he was not going to live, if all the others died. In one last desperate attempt, he gripped the woman's leg and then, finally met her eyes.

They were green and cold, as merciless as those of any warrior he had fought over the years. It was then he realized he had never had a chance to harm her, but it was too late. The hammer fell half a heartbeat later.

* * *

Leman of the Russ watched his sister enter the long hall. Her pace was brisk, but her satisfied expression told him her raid had gone well. In a way, he regretted she was born to Thengir—Thorgerd was a leader of men, and would have been a fine queen, but with him, she was overshadowed, like the sun outshone the stars.

"Father," she said, stopping in front of Thengir's throne. Then she nodded to Leman. "Brother."

"I am glad to see you, daughter," Thengir replied, rising from his throne. His movements were slow, but neither Leman nor Thorgerd moved to help him. He would not accept it, and they would not shame him by implying he was so old as to need help walking.

Once he had risen, his steps were still sure and when he placed his hand on Thorgerd's shoulders, his grip was strong.

"As am I to see you, father," Thorgerd replied, embracing the old king.

Her greeting with Leman was not nearly as warm. The two measured each other for a moment, before nodding.

"Have you made your choice, father?" Thorgerd asked.

"I'd rather hear your latest tale first," Thengir replied.

Thorgerd glanced at Leman, her brow furrowing, and he wondered if she guessed. Mentally, he chided himself—she must have. She was not stupid and she must have noticed the signs.

"As you wish," she said.

She called one of her lieutenants—a stocky man with a missing eye called Rangver – and told him to start bringing the spoils. Leman did not doubt they would be fine. If Thorgerd had suspected their father would announce his heir, she would want to make sure he knew she was a fine warrior and a good leader. Her pride would not let her submit, even if the choice was obvious.

First, they brought in the fine swords and axes, the jewels and the drinking horns. Steadily, Thorgerd's men piled the goods in front of their king. Gold and silver glittered, and gems sparkled reflecting the light of the fire that lit the hall.

Then, they led in the thralls. Not all of them, naturally.

Thorgerd grinned, as Rangver brought a young woman. She was holding her head high still, even though her hair had already been cut short, to signify her new status.

"The wife of the king of Veringjar," Thorgerd announced. "I thought she'd be a fitting gift for you, brother."

Leman's brow furrowed. A gift like this was a fine one, and certainly fitting, but he doubted it was offered as a token of respect. Not today. Not with the choice looming over her head.

"I thought it is high time you learned how to deal with women," she continued. "I would have given you her brother, but alas, he insisted on fighting me."

The implications themselves had no meaning. She could have found many other insults to say, and what would truly matter was that she was trying to discredit him, and that he had to respond. If he let any insult slide, if he ignored it, she would gain further ground. Later, she could say he was a coward.

A growl escaped his throat: a wet, rumbling sound that reverberated through his chest. "We should settle this, sister."

"You would wager your right to the throne?" Thorgerd asked.

"Yes," he growled. "The one who loses forfeits their claims."

She looked at him for a moment, her eyes narrow. Perhaps, she now thought the same as he did moments before—that she could not back away now, not without leaving marked as a coward.

"Very well, brother," she said finally.

* * *

Not all settlements had a holm. In some, the custom was to sail to a small island and conduct a duel there, but the Russ preferred their holmgangs to be events everyone could see. And while there were those who preferred to eschew the rigid rules and simply brawl until the better one emerged, neither Thorgerd nor Leman had this luxury.

If a woman could call upon the wrath of the gods, what chance would a warrior her to vanquish her?

If a man could bend steel and crush rocks in his bare hands, how could anyone expect to best him?

"The combatants will meet inside the holm," Thengir announced. He gestured towards the holm—a square field lined with rocks. Inside, framed by two further stone borders, was a leather cloak. "Whoever steps outside will have fled the battle. Each combatant has three shields. After the third shield is broken, the combatant is not permitted to leave the cloak. The duel ends after blood falls on the cloak.

Only swords are permitted as weapons."

Thorgerd was well aware that the only way for them to settle this was to submit to the rules and step into the holm. She was also quite aware her chances to succeed had dwindled rapidly the moment she had agreed to the duel.

She could beat any man, save for one. Leman was simply inhuman both in strength and resistance. Perhaps if she were allowed to call upon the thunder… But that would be against the rules, and so Leman was at an advantage. No man had ever bested him, no beast had ever hurt him. He always returned victorious. And yet, she would not give up. Her claim to the throne was true—she was flesh of Thengir's flesh, blood of his blood.

If Leman wanted her birthright, he would have to best her and she would not make it easy for him.

She looked at him, looming over his shield-bearer, as he fastened a shield to his arm. At her side Rangver did the same.

Thengir stood to the side, his expression as stern as ever. A king could not worry for his children, for the eyes of others were always upon him. He had to watch them as he would any other pair of feuding warriors and quash any urge to call them back.

Thorgerd was on her last shield, but her step was still quick and her sword still bit like a serpent. Leman's shield was pitted at the edges, where Thorgerd's sword had struck. Soon enough he would lose it as well. He watched her weave and twist, until she finally landed a solid strike. The wood broke, and the shield fell away in pieces. Leman grabbed his hand with a sharp hiss, several fingers bent unnaturally.

There were shocked shouts from the crowd and gasps—Leman was hardly ever harmed. Still, this would not stop him. He motioned with his sword-hand, and his shield-bearer hurried to his side, to tie the shield to his arm.

Thorgerd used the few moments to rest, but sprung into movement as soon as Leman was back. As quick as she was, Leman was swifter despite his bulk. Thengir knew he should have long ago ceased to be amazed, and yet each time his son fought he could not believe a man this large could move so lightly and easily.

He was upon her moments after he had stepped away from his shield-bearer, his sword almost too swift for eyes to follow. It was miracle that Thorgerd had seen it coming and brought her own shield to bear, but it did little good. The wood broke and she stumbled away, cradling her arm.

"Do you yield?" Leman growled his voice rumbling deeply from his chest.

Thorgerd picked up her sword, letting her broken arm fall limply at her side. "No. You've yet to shed any blood, brother."

Leman nodded, as she stepped back onto the leather cloak. The final, decisive bout was before them, but the victor was already apparent. Thorgerd might have had a chance against another warrior even with a broken arm, but not against Leman. The pain was slowing her down, and she instinctively moved so as to shield her hurt arm. Restrained to the cloak and only parrying, she had to know she would soon lose.

Thengir thought he had brought her up well—a proud woman like her would not submit easily, if at all, and would fight to the end. Her sword sparked and chipped as she parried Leman's strikes. It almost seemed like her weapon would break before she would be defeated.

Suddenly, Leman's sword struck low and bit into the meat of her thigh. As he pulled it out, blood fell on the cloak.

* * *

**AN **Thorgerd is the reincarnation of Sailor Jupiter.


	5. Thunderstorm II

**Thunderstorm II**

Leman had not expected she would leave. It seemed so logical now, and yet it had never occurred to him. He should have been more subtle, instead of assuming he only needed to triumph publicly over her to win her cooperation.

Thorgerd was a leader of men, and a proud woman. She would not submit to his rule, not anymore. Being wrong was a bitter experience, and he did not relish it. Perhaps this was why his steps took him to Thorgerd's longship—he subconsciously wanted to fix this mistake.

"Thorgerd!" he shouted, and watched her walk towards him, still limping slightly. "Will you not reconsider?"

She stopped in front of him, her head held high. "No. I will not be your puppet."

Leman stopped dead, his golden eyes growing wide. He had not expected to hear words like that from anyone.

"Puppet?" he growled. "Don't flatter your-"

He felt a finger jab his chest, as Thorgerd snapped, "Yes, puppet. Did you really think I wouldn't realize you chose exactly the kind of combat that would favour you?" Then she smirked. "And you still took your sweet time to defeat me."

Leman froze. He hadn't ever considered the possibility that anyone would truly notice, especially not his sister. Always, she had seemed straight-forward and now… Now, he was standing on thin ice and it was cracking under his feet.

Then, he noticed a familiar figure on the long ship.

"Bulveye?" he said, eyes wide.

"Yes, Bulveye," Thorgerd replied. "Did you think he'd follow a man, who took so long to best a woman?"

* * *

Thengir felt old. Suddenly, he felt as helpless as a peasant might feel in the face of a sword of a warrior. He had been powerless to stop his children from fighting, and equally powerless to stop Thorgerd from leaving.

Where had he gone wrong? What should he have done differently?

Had there been a way to change the outcome, to prevent this clash?

It was too late. Thorgerd was already sailing away, and with her hirth, their families and thralls. After the duel, paradoxically, her hirth had grown. She had been so badly out-matched and yet held out so well, it was hard for the men not to admire her.

Thengir wanted to believe his son had taken so long to defeat her out of loyalty to his family and to their bonds. But at the same time, he knew he could not be certain. How long had it been since he had been sure and without doubt? Strong children should have been a blessing, should have allowed him to pass away without worries for the people he was leaving behind, and yet, it seemed the Russ would end up divided. Would they even survive?

He sighed heavily.

Perhaps Thorgerd would have been the better choice after all.

* * *

The wind tasted of salt. It was sharp and stinging, and for once Bulveye was glad he was bald. Unlike some others, he did not have to worry about combing out knots from his hair or having it blown into their face.

He passed between Thorgerd's warriors, catching a few suspicious glances. He had been Leman's man, so he did not blame them. His decision had been made on the spur, and yet, he could not imagine himself making a different one.

His goal, Thorgerd, was standing on the prow, her shield-arm cradled close to her side.

"Where are we headed?" he asked.

She turned around to face him and measured him with those green eyes. He had forgotten that he had found talking with her disconcerting. A woman and a warrior, like two persons in one body.

"Where are we headed, jarl," she corrected him. "You didn't earn my friendship, yet."

The warrior frowned, her words not matching his expectations.

"Friendship?" he asked. "Not trust or respect?"

Thorgerd shook her head, and smiled, which caught him be surprise. It had been years since he had seen that expression on her face, and to tell the truth it had made his life much easier. Now, again, he was caught between thinking of her as a warrior and a woman.

"I know you're a great warrior," she said. "But not a schemer. I see no reason to doubt your words, Bulveye."

* * *

The settlement had not burned this time. It was taken as intact as possible, those who threw down their weapons taken as thralls, and those who resisted killed mercilessly. Thorgerd's band settled it again, and started carving out more for themselves. Slowly, they grew in numbers—Thorgerd had decided to allow the younger sons from other clans join, and they in turn brought in wives, even if some of them had to kidnap them first.

Soon enough, she had to settle a dispute that broke out between Brandi, one of the warriors from her hirth, and Athalvaldr, one of the newcomers. It was bound to happen sooner or later—Brandi decided that since he was one of her men, those that followed her from the start, he deserved more, and took Athalvaldr's wife.

She let them solve it in a duel, aware that any other decision would be seen as taking sides.

As she watched the two trade blows, she caught herself wondering how Leman would have dealt with such a situation. Would he have made the same choice as she did? Now, that she didn't have to think about him stealing her birth-right, she realized she missed him. Not the calculating giant he had become, but the tall youth, who would tell her stories about his conquests and give her piggy-back rides.

The clang of blade meeting blade brought her back to reality. The duel was reaching its end, with both warriors tired and winded. Athalvaldr stumbled, and Brandi used the opportunity. He slashed at the man's cheek, opening a gash. Blood fell on the leather cloak, and Thorgerd raised her voice to stop the duel.

"As is the custom, Brandi will pay Athalvaldr for wounding him," she announced. "In turn, Athalvaldr will consider the quarrel settled. This is my final decision."

On the same day, she sent Rangver to talk with Bulveye. There was one sure way to show that she would not be taking sides.


	6. Thunderstorm III

**Thunderstorm VIII**

The ships were swift and slender. They cut through the waves easily, and could outpace storms and any pursuit. Their crew was courageous and strong, mighty warriors all. They had fought many battles, won many victories. And yet, all of that had proven of little consequence.

The sea surface had been as close to calm as it ever got on Fenris and they were making good speed, returning from their latest raid. They had been cautious—they were too experienced to let their guard slip. They watched the sea and the sky, expecting both beasts and other ships. And yet, it had all been for naught.

One moment, the Hringhorni was in the lead, the next it was gone, pulled down into the stygian depths of the sea by a giant tentacle. The other ships scattered almost instantly, but it was too late. They had attracted the attention of a kraken.

The second strike had not been as devastating—Ormen merely lost its sail, but a significant part of her crew were swept from the deck as the tentacle retreated. Those that remained were frozen, uncertain what to do or too frightened to act.

The ship drifted, a wounded beast too dazed to run from the predator. An easy prey. The next strike would drown it too—but it never came.

The Hrafnkel turned, and started moving towards Ormen. The oars moved in a steady rhythm, as a tall figure stood stock still, watching the water. He raised his hand, and the oars stopped. The warrior cast one final glance over his shoulder, meeting the pale faces and wide eyes of his warriors.

Then, Leman of the Russ turned and jumped into the icy water.

The ships remained in place, just long enough to fish out the survivors. Nobody doubted Leman was a great warrior. The twin brothers that had only recently sworn their oaths kept staring into the murky depths, as if trying to pierce the darkness and see their king.

But the surface remained calm and soon enough, the hirth came to the only conclusion they could make—Leman had sacrificed himself to save his men. They could not let it be in vain. The ships set sail and fled.

* * *

At first, they had assumed it was an island, but as they sailed nearer, it became clear that it was something different. It was the wrong colour, to start with: pink, with purple veins visible under the glabrous skin. And that was not mentioning the overpowering stench. Miles long tentacles undulated on the water. It could only be one thing. As soon as the realization hit, her men, seasoned warriors all, panicked. A kraken. Who could hope to live when faced with such a beast? Their ships would be broken and pulled under, and the beast would feast on them.

Thorgerd did not let the panic spread. Her voice cut clear over the din. "It's not moving."

She pointed at the giant body. A gigantic eye stared blindly at them, as the kraken drifted past the Svala. The panic died, when they realized they had never been in danger at all. The kraken was dead. Thorgerd watched it, wondering what could have killed such an enormous monster, when one of her men cried out "Man over board."

It took some maneuvering to get them close enough to the floating body, since they had to avoid colliding with the kraken's corpse. Thorgerd watched as the figure grew larger and larger. She could see long copper-red hair floating around his head and shoulders, like algae. The clothes were torn and bloodied, but she could still make out the shade of the tunic—a dark blue. Clearly, whoever he was had been of high status. Then his size became apparent. He was not just big, but gigantic and Thorgerd had to wonder, if there could be another like Leman.

One of her men jumped down with a rope and secured it around the man's broad chest. With the help of two others, they pushed the body near enough for the others to start pulling it up. They secured it with effort, while six others heaved and pulled. With effort, they dragged him onto the ship, and then she could see the man's face. Bruised and scratched as it was, she could still recognize it with ease—it was Leman. How he had managed to slay the giant monster remained a question she could not answer, and yet she did not doubt it had been him.

Through the torn clothes, she could see fading bruises, in the shape of giant suckers. And yet, what truly caught her attention was that he was still breathing. It was not the only shock she would have. Moments after they had managed to lay him down, he stirred. Slowly, he propped himself up on his arms and looked up. Water dripped from his hair, making it look like copper, instead of the usual golden-reddish shade. Thorgerd looked at him rise. He didn't wobble, he didn't lose his balance like another man might have had after waking after a hard fight.

Her eyes met his, and suddenly, she wondered how it came she had never noticed how eerie they were. Gold pinned with black, like the eyes of a beast. They widened, and for a moment, his face showed surprise.

"Sister," he rumbled, his tone disbelieving.

"Brother," she replied evenly.

They watched each other, and she wondered briefly what he was thinking. She couldn't tell—his face had become blank and cold, just like hers.

"You look well, Thorgerd," Leman finally stated, nothing of the previous shock or disbelief present.

She nodded, and offered a polite smile. "So do you, Leman."

A grin tugged at his lips, and for a moment she could glimpse his over-grown canines. "No barbed comments?"

"If anything," she replied, her smile growing less forced, "you look like a drowned hairy bear."

"Lying never did suit you," Leman replied, reaching up to wring some water out of his hair.

* * *

Tension hung in the air. It had been two years since Thorgerd and Leman had spoken. And yet, she appeared to have changed very little. Her hair was still almost the same shade as his, and her face smooth. He smelled a familiar scent on her, but that was to be expected. He had heard she had married Bulveye, and it seemed that there was at least a grain of truth in the rumor.

There were other smells in the air—mainly that of nervous, uncertain men. Even Thorgerd smelled like someone on the edge, in the moment where they choose whether to fight or to flee. She was hiding it behind a smile, but he suspected that she was trying to work out where this would lead them.

"I heard you have a son," he said, his voice even. She was leaning against the rail, watching the waves. He could hear the splash of oars meeting the water in a steady rhythm, as they hurried back to Asaheim.

She nodded, her expression guarded. "You have no children," she countered.

"No," he replied. "Your child could be considered my heir as well."

Thorgerd glanced at him, her shoulders tense. She was suspecting some kind of a trap, he guessed.

"Speak plainly, Leman," she said. "I have neither the time, nor the patience for word-games."

"I can acknowledge your son as my heir," Leman replied. "All you'd need to do is take an oath, and join me. Think of what we could accomplish together, sister."

Thorgerd gave him an incredulous look, and then to his surprise snorted. He had not expected her to be amused—insulted, angry or thoughtful, but not this.

"You're the only person that would try using not having an heir to their advantage," she said shaking her head. Then, her expression grew stern. "No, brother, I will not become your subject. Had I wanted to submit to someone, I would have let you and father choose a husband for me. I'd never have sailed, never fought. I worked too hard to lose it all just for the sake of a child that might yet die."

Leman looked at her, considering her words. "You realize I have no intention of staying just another raider-king?"

Thorgerd pushed her golden-red braid away from her shoulder, and nodded slowly. "Did you think I would settle for one village?"

They both looked away from one another, and for a moment watched the sea in silence.

"Sooner or later, we will meet on the battlefield," Leman said.

"Do we have to leave it to fate?" Thorgerd asked.

Leman turned his head sharply and looked at her with a thoughtful frown. "No… We do not," he said slowly. "We could meet and settle it properly."

Thorgerd nodded. "But not yet."

Leman felt himself grin. "If we are to settle it properly, the prize should be more than two villages."

Thorgerd grinned back. "When we will fight, it will be for the fate of the world."

* * *

Thorgerd had brought Leman to her village, allowing him to stay long enough to rest. Not that he needed to rest long—by the time they reached land, he was perfectly fine, but he wanted to see how she had settled. Some of the buildings were old, marked with soot, as if they survived many raids. Others were new, and more still were being raised. Aside from the Svala and several other familiar ships, he saw other, new ones; together, he counted ten.

He watched Thorgerd divide the spoils between her men, and then announce a feast. The men scattered, heading to meet with their wives or parents, while Thorgerd motioned for him to follow.

They walked towards the longhouse where she lived, passing thralls and women on their way. Some of them, Thorgerd acknowledged with a nod, and she stopped to talk with Rangver's wife, asking her to offer Leman mjod after she had served it to her and Bulveye.

When they entered, Bulveye was sitting on a chair next to a throne and talking with two others. He rose, and stared at Leman with wide eyes. The other two turned around, and their faces assumed the same expressions of shock.

"Leman decided he wanted to eat a kraken," Thorgerd said. "It did not like the idea, and they had to settle the misunderstanding."

The silence continued, as the men digested the information. Then, finally, Bulveye asked, his voice sounding rather uncertain, "And how did it taste?"

"Disgusting," Leman replied. Then, he grinned. "Looks like you found a different way to defeat a woman. And I sure hope you take as long as I did..."

Bulveye's expression changed almost instantly, and he countered quickly, "Well, you could have tried that way, too. But I guess you weren't as confident in your stamina outside the battlefield..."

"On the contrary," Leman shot back, "I'm afraid there is no woman that could match my… prowess."

Words like that came easily to him. Warriors bragged about their conquests so often that he would have to be deaf not to notice the patterns they used. One could say that one defeated a host of warriors with both hands tied, and equally one could claim to bed a whole tribe of women. It was expected of any great warrior.

Thorgerd snorted. "Don't start fights just after we decided to put off dueling until later."

* * *

**AN: **And because I said I would (and forgot), here's a small who's who:

Qamar = reincarnated Sailor Uranus

Thorgerd = reincarnated Sailor Jupiter

From now on, I'll just put up a note at the beginning of every arc.


	7. Thunderstorm IV

**Thunderstorm IV**

Thorgerd had refused to lend him a ship. She needed them for other ventures, and he was an untrustworthy bastard, apparently. Leman did not argue—he realized he would not convince her and while he could have stolen a ship and could have overpowered its crew that would lead to the very fight he and Thorgerd had wanted to postpone. Besides, even if he did best the crew it didn't mean they would take him anywhere, and he could hardly steer a ship on his own.

Having counted this as her victory, Thorgerd magnanimously offered supplies for him. Leman declined. Since she had refused him a ship, he would not accept other charity from her. Thorgerd might have wanted to argue again, but he bade her and Bulveye farewell, and made his way out of the settlement. Soon enough, he heard nothing of the daily din of a lively village, and saw only the snow-covered wilderness spread before him. Ancient wind-bent trees rose from the ground, gnarled branches reaching out towards the sky like broken hands.

Sound travelled for miles, roaring and howling carried on the wind until it reached his ears. He glimpsed white shapes moving in the distance—hunting predators, hoping to catch the unwary traveller. This far away from his own hunting grounds, the animals did not know how dangerous he was, and so tried to attack him.

Seven days after he had left Thorgerd's settlement an elk came charging at him, clearly considering him a threat. Leman quickly grabbed the animal by the antlers and tossed it over his head. Then, to make sure it was dead, he sat down on it, and twisted its neck until it broke. He rose and dragged it towards a clump of trees, where he would be able to eat unseen. He devoured the elk whole, not bothering with a fire—the fresh meat was still warm and slick with blood when he tore it from the bones with his fingers. When only bones were left he rested for a few hours, letting his mind wander. Several years before this day he had realized he could rest without sleeping. Sometimes he would not hear a thing, and sometimes his sense of smell would fade, but in his semi-conscious state it did not alarm him. It seemed natural. But he could not rest indefinitely. Soon enough, he left the remains of the elk and set off again.

A few hours later, he reached a frozen river. He would follow it until he came to its source and there, passed through the mountains. There were no settlements on his way, as far as he knew—only the vast white spaces, the forests and the mountains. The only living beings would be animals, devoid of higher purpose other than to feed and to survive.

There was an odd sense of meditative purity in this journey. He was outside of society, a lone hunter among the beasts. All that mattered was speed and strength, and the basest of cunning. Briefly, he wondered how his life would be if he chose to lose himself on Asaheim, but he discarded the thought. The temptation was a false one—the challenge of living on his own would grow stale unlike that of conquest and politics.

As he travelled, as the mountains grew closer, snowstorms became more frequent. They affected him little, and he ignored them. Cold had no power over him. Sometimes, he had to climb, other times he ran through a valley for miles. Once he barely avoided being buried in snow, as an avalanche fell just as he was descending. Another day, he had to retrace his steps, as the valley he was planning to cross turned out to be buried under heavy rocks.

He had been on his way for a month, when he saw the mountain. The sky was blue and clear, the air crisp and cold, and so he could see just how tall it was. It rose to the heavens, and even his eyes—so much better than those of other men—could not see its summit. For a moment, he toyed with the idea of climbing it, but discarded it. He did not have time for such distraction—maybe, one day he would do it, but this would come later, when no other challenges were left.

He had turned away, leaving the mountain behind. It faded, its allure growing weaker with every step. Around him, slowly but steadily, the mountains became smaller, and turned into hills. Gnarled trees barred his way now, new dangers lurking in their shades. From time to time, he would glimpse movement and smell musky odours of predators on the hunt.

At first, the occasional bear or ice fiend would try its luck against him, but those attacks grew less and less, until finally they stopped completely. He had reached a region where the animals knew of him, and knew to fear him. The realization brought a budding sense of familiarity with it. He started recognizing landmarks—a tree that had been struck by lightening, a rock covered with odd carvings...

As his steps carried him closer to his goal, a formless unease started forming in his mind. It crept into his veins like liquid ice, though at first he could not place it. Then he realized he could not smell the cooking fires, nor hear the sounds of people tending to animals and their homes.

Almost unconsciously, he started running faster, the vague unease growing into a sense of dread, only to freeze into numb shock when he finally entered the village.

* * *

The village was dead, the palisade that surrounded it broken and burnt. Frozen corpses littered the ground, warriors he had known all his life. The houses were burnt shells as were the ships. Judging from the state of the dead, the attack happened long ago.

He burst into the first longhouse that was not simply a burnt skeleton. Something crunched under his feet, and when he looked down, he found himself staring at a hand and a part of an arm. He had stepped on it, and it broke like a twig under his foot. More body parts were scattered, and he spotted glowing eyes in a far way corner. The scavenger tried to flee, but Leman was faster. It had dismembered one of his people, and it would pay.

The head tore from the body in a shower of gore, but the action brought no closure. He tore into the next house and the next, letting the sight of the dead fuel his fury. It rose like a giant wave, building up and becoming a red tide that swept all away. He roared like a wounded beast, barely noticing that he flushed out more of the scavenging animals.

They were not the prey he wanted—it was those responsible for the deaths of his men, and those who took the women and children. His mind worked frantically and soon enough an answer presented itself. How fortuitous, how convenient was it that Thorgerd was sailing on the route that led her to him… And there were bodies missing, bodies of women and children, the body of his father. Thorgerd would not kill her sire.

He roared once more, but this time, it was the sound of a predator that had found its prey.

* * *

What emerged from the snow storm looked barely human—plastered with snow, with glowing golden eyes, it roared with fury as it charged towards the central longhouse. It was only because of that inhuman sound—grief and blind anger mixed into one—that Thorgerd managed to get out in time.

Lightning struck at the beast, making it stumble. Thorgerd felt her heart sink when she saw it shake its—his head. Some of the snow peeled away, and she could see wet golden-red strands flash through the white. Leman, but not like she knew him. When she looked into his eyes, she saw only animalistic hate, and nothing of the usual cunning or humour.

"Have you gone insane?" she snapped, as he charged at her again. Another lightning bolt struck at him and then another, and another again, until he backed away. For a moment, he swayed slightly, but it passed all too quickly.

"You know very well, you lying-" Leman roared.

She didn't let him finish, striking him again. "I do not!"

She couldn't let him come close to her, she had to keep him away. If he reached her, she would die. Her only choice was to keep him away and try to either get him to explain what fuelled his rage or kill him before he killed her.

"Liar!" Leman roared. "You killed them!"

"Killed who?" Thorgerd replied, following up with another lightning strike.

"My people! You murdered them, when I was not there! You stole the women and children! And then you had the gall to pretend-"

She didn't wait for him to end the sentence. It was easy enough to guess what would follow, of what he was accusing her. He was accusing her of murdering her own. Fury rose in her, crackling at her fingers and dancing through her muscles. She released it, and a giant roaring drake made of the energy of her rage swallowed Leman whole. It crackled and glowed white hot, before fading and leaving her brother on his knees.

"You bastard!" she roared, calling down the thunder again. "How dare you!"

He looked up at her, and snarled. "Where is my father? Where did you take him?"

"Have you gone insane?" Thora shrieked. "I would never raise my hand against my father!"

Another thunder bolt struck him, as he tried to rise. He stumbled, and slumped down again.

"Where is he?" Leman growled.

"I don't know!" Thorgerd snapped. "Why are you accusing me, instead of looking for him? Did you even pause to think or did you run here blindly? What would I gain? Do you think my warriors would agree to such an honourless act?"

For the first time, since he had come Leman looked at her with the eyes of a man. He sunk to his haunches and breathed heavily.

"Think! Why would I slay my kin? I have a child, a husband, my own people! I know you, I know what you can do! Do you think I would risk all of that and leave you alive, to come back in the night and slay us all?"

He watched her still, his chest rising and falling. There was something animal like about him, but now, it was suppressed.

"Look around, try to find any slave that is of the Russ!" she snapped. "I would not steal from the place of my birth, and neither would I make thralls of men and women of my own blood!"

"It was not you," he said slowly. "I… The bodies were too old."

He stared at her for a while longer, before the combined effect of exhaustion and all the lightning strikes caught up with him. His eyes rolled back into his skull, and he fell onto the snow.


	8. Thunderstorm V

**Thunderstorm V**

Leman was out cold, and had to be carried inside. Thorgerd called several men to carry him in, while the thralls prepared a make-shift place for him to lie on made from spare furs. Once the warriors managed to drag Leman inside—which was a feat worthy of legends in itself-Thorgerd hastily gave an order to boil a lot of water—her brother appeared to have not bathed for months and in the warmth of the longhouse the smell quickly gained a life of its own.

Despite that Thorgerd hovered over Leman as the thralls got him out of his torn clothes and did their best to clean him. He was still her brother.

She should have lent that ship to him. It had been just childish spite on her part, and fear—fear that he would somehow turn her men against her and take them away. And now, thanks to her weakness, her kin were either slain or taken captive.

Who had done it?

Undoubtedly, the Russ had made enemies of many others tribes, but was any of them powerful enough to destroy the settlement? It seemed implausible, and yet this was the only solution she could think of. Perhaps, once Leman was awake, he would be able to give her more details.

"What do you intend?" Bulveye asked.

She hadn't heard him approach, so deep in thought she had been. Startled, she turned to face him.

What did she intend? It was a good question and one she had to answer fast.

"I will have to find the guilty and avenge our own," she replied after a moment.

"And how will you do it?" Bulveye asked.

Thorgerd pinched the bridge of her nose. "All clues that would point us to who it was are likely gone by now, or will be by the time any ship I send gets there."

She paused, unconsciously twirling her braid in her fingers, as she considered her next actions. "I will have to wait—whoever did that…"

She fell silent looking up at Bulveye.

"No. No, I have a better idea. We will lure them here. . It can't be coincidence that they attacked when Leman was not there, so let's make them think I left and they have a chance against us. Once Leman can walk, we will publically leave to bury our dead. We will spread rumours about it—after all it will take months for me to come back. They won't be able to resist."

Bulveye grinned. "And we will be waiting for them."

* * *

There had been no period of semi-consciousness. Leman woke up fully as soon as he opened his eyes, every detail of what had happened earlier as vivid as if it had just occurred moments ago. He remembered every day of the journey, every smell and every thought. The last part he found he regretted—a lot of them were really not worth hanging onto.

Slowly, he sat up and looked around. A female thrall, the very same Thorgerd had nearly given him so long ago, looked back and dashed out, no doubt to inform his sister he was awake. He would have preferred if she had bothered to get him something to eat and to drink first.

Thorgerd marched in moments later, with several thralls carrying bowls of soup in tow.

"How are you feeling, brother?" she asked, as the first thrall carefully handed Leman a bowl.

"Fine," he replied.

"That's 'fine' that means 'I am well', or 'fine' that means 'though men don't admit they feel like a chewed up fish'?" Thorgered shot back.

"I am well," Leman answered irritably, and took a spoonful of the broth. "And I will need more than that. Cheese, meat… I didn't exactly stop to hunt when heading here and need to make up for that. I didn't expect you to forget so quickly I never get sick."

Thorgerd sighed heavily. "I forgot you have a bottomless pit for a stomach."

Leman bared his teeth in a brief grin, as she sent some of the thralls for more food. Then he brushed his hand through his hair and frowned. "I owe you an apology, sister. I have acted rashly and insulted you."

Thorgerd stared at him in silence. Then her brows knotted in suspicion, as she considered his words. Finally, she shook her head, and said, "You and I both have made mistakes—my pride has lead to this as well as yours. We should have tried to keep the Russ together, instead of dividing them between us like toys."

Leman nodded slowly. Briefly, he wondered how long he had been unconscious—she clearly had had time to think everything over. Which made him wonder, if she hadn't used that time to think about more than mistakes. "You have a plan, don't you?"

She nodded. "I do, but first, I'd like to know if you remember anything that could tell us who did it."

Leman closed his eyes, trying to visualize the destroyed village. It was not difficult—the images, smells and sounds were vivid in his mind's eye as soon as he thought about it. "They took their dead," he replied, frowning. "But I counted three different ways of executing the wounded."

"What do you mean?" Thorgerd asked, her expression and voice betraying her confusion.

"We had been attacked by at least three different tribes," Leman said.

* * *

Fari watched Thorgerd Thengirsdottyr and Leman of the Russ leave the settlement. On any other occasion the sight of them walking side by side would have filled him with dread, but on this day, it made his heart beat faster with excitement.

To the Russ, he was just another thrall, one that Rengvar's wife had bought a few months ago, if they noticed him at all. He was an average man, easily overlooked, and it was precisely why he was where he was. Fari was not truly a slave—he was merely pretending to be one. In truth, he was a man of the Yngvi, a servant of King Jorund.

He dearly wanted to leave the Russ and head to the Yngvi settlement, but couldn't do so too early. It would be suspicious, if he was missed just after Thorgerd and Leman had left and he was forced to impatiently wait for nightfall. Fear and excitement nearly made him shiver, and he had to fight to make himself act normally. News such as this would see him rewarded; perhaps even allow his children to have a higher position in the tribe.

He did his duties, every moment lasting seemingly an hour, until finally night came. Night he had waited for so long. Yet, he could not sneak out yet. He could be noticed. Instead, he went to the slaves' sleeping hall and lay down with the others, than willed himself to be still. His heartbeat rung in his ears, as he listened to the sounds around him. Finally, when the rustling of blankets and furs, as somebody turned under them, stopped being so frequent, and loud snoring reached his ears, he carefully rose. He treaded lightly, but tried to act natural, as if he was leaving in response to the call of nature and not like someone with something to hide.

Outside, he headed for the outhouse, and then deeper into the darkness. Again, he tried to make sure he looked like he was on some errand, and not running away, when he had to be visible. His heart beat frantically whenever he noticed a sentry, fearing he would be sent back or, worse, questioned.

Finally, he reached the harbour. He fell to his stomach and crawled forward towards the water. Slowly, ever so slowly, he dragged himself into the icy sea. He didn't dare to rise, and so dragged himself through the slit, until he was deep enough to float. Though he couldn't hope to move completely silently, his slow movements caused splashes slow enough to be masked by the waves hitting the hulls of the ships. For a moment, he simply floated, then took a deep gulp of air and dove.

Swimming blindly was not easy and he did it only for a moment. He resurfaced again and looked around to make sure he was still in the right direction, then dove again. His muscles and lungs burnt with exertion, once he finally left the harbour and he still had a long way to go. His hands and legs shook when he climbed out of the water, but he was still not done.

He broke into a run, hopping that the movement will keep him warm enough before he reached his hidden stash of clothes. After all, his message would be worthless, if he could not deliver it. Nevertheless, when he reached a small secluded bay, his teeth were chattering and his hands were stiff.

He climbed into a one-man boat and, shivering, changed into dry clothes. Then, he pushed the boat into the water and jumped in. He had a long way to go.


	9. Thunderstorm VI

**Thunderstorm VI**

The sky was blue and clear, with nary a cloud marring it. While it let the sentries spot the ships sailing towards the Russ harbour and raise alarm, the crews were not particularly bothered. They readied themselves for battle, as any good warriors would, but they did so feeling secure in the knowledge that on that day they would only be facing other mortal men.

The Russ were strong, but they had defeated them once. The Angvari, Njarar and Yngvi would not let them roam and kill, would not let them come for their women and children. They would end the threat, before it got out of hand.

Havarr watched the Russ sentries rush to the longhouses, where the women and thralls hid. It was a common tactic during raids—one man could defend a doorway from many others before being killed, and nobody started burning down villages before they were pillaged. He followed his compatriots out of the longship and into the village.

Following his elder brother, he ran into the nearest house that had no warrior standing in the doorway. He was not as young to need to constantly prove himself and he had a daughter that needed to be married off. His thoughts were of her dowry, as he entered.

Then he stumbled over his brother's body. He had no time to adjust, when he felt a hand on his face. It was strong, with long slender fingers, but he barely noticed that. His body arched and sizzled, as thunder coursed through his veins.

* * *

Bulveye grinned to himself, as he watched the sentry stumble into the hall. Hella had always been a good actor, and while his performance would not fool anyone for long, it did not need to. All he had to do was lead the aggressors inside.

Just as the first two rushed in, Bulveye sprung from his hiding place. His axe buried itself in the skull of the first man, just as Hella sprung back into action and cut off the arm of the other man. With another fluid stroke of his sword, he beheaded him, while Bulveye jumped back to the side.

Unseen by the attacking warriors, the women hidden in the house brought a large cauldron of hot water. They heaved it up and then spilled it over the aggressors. Those that were trying to get in were now stumbling out, causing confusion. Bulveye rushed out, closely followed by Hella and several other warriors that were hiding with him in the house.

* * *

The first man that entered the house Leman was hiding in died of a missing head. He hadn't even taken out his sword—he simply punched him, and it exploded in a shower of gore and bone shards. The next three were cleaved in halves, but the fourth he grabbed and ripped the sword from his hands.

He bared his teeth in a savage grin as more men rushed in, and pushed his catch into the arms of two warriors that had been hiding with him. They would restrain the man, so that they could question him later, after the battle.

His catch secured, Leman met the next enemies. They tried to swarm him, likely hoping that the lack of space would let them outmanoeuver him. In what was but a heartbeat, they learned their folly. Their weapons did not even scratch him, while his sword bit into flesh and cut limbs from bodies.

* * *

None of the three tribes had expected the ambush. Leman of the Russ and Thorgerd Thengirsdottyr were not known for their willingness to cooperate. And yet, it seemed so plain, so obvious now.

By attacking them and leaving Leman alive, the Yngvi, the Angvari and the Njarar had forced the two to work together. What they expected to be their triumph changed into a bitter defeat—one that would doom their tribes.

The king of the Yngvi was already dead, his brains dashed out on the snow by Thorgerd's hammer. The leaders of the Angvari and Njarar were still alive, but neither felt joyous about it. They were surrounded and tired, their bands slain.

They shared glances, knowing that they could not let the Russ take them alive. The knowledge helped them little—the moment they turned their eyes away from the warriors surrounding them a pair of massive hands grabbed their heads and brought them together. The movement appeared gentle, and yet the two kings slumped unconscious on the snow.

* * *

The Njarar settlement was in shambles, the final victim of the Russ' wrath. The houses had been torn down, and their remains piled high until they formed an enormous pyre. On it, a longship rested. The Russ had been leading the Njarar, Angvari and Yngvi survivors on it. There, each woman, child and warrior was slain, their throats slit.

The Angvari and Njarar kings were tied to the mast so that they faced the bed of twigs on which the remains of King Thengir of the Russ rested. After all the time, not much more than bones was left of him, but Thorgerd and Leman had managed to put the corpse into armour and a sword in his hands.

Jewels, decorations, furs were all piled on the ship for the dead king to take with himself on his way into afterlife. Once the last captive had been lead onto the ship, Thorgerd and Leman stepped forward. They walked in silence, until they stopped in front of the pyre. Then each of them took out a knife and they cut their palms. They held them out and let the blood drip onto the wood.

After a moment, they stepped back. Bulveye handed Leman a burning torch, which the giant man tossed onto the pyre. Thorgerd simply brought her hands up and let lightning spill from her fingertips. It crackled, sparks flying in all directions, until the wood caught fire.

The flames started spreading—at first slowly, then faster, until they swallowed the ship whole. Finally, the silence was broken, as the fire reached the two men tied to the mast. Perhaps they had intended to die in stoic silence, perhaps they had not thought of that—it mattered little. Once they started burning, they could not stop themselves from screaming.

The sound of their pained voices would be the dirge that would accompany Thengir into the afterlife.


	10. Thunderstorm VII

**Thunderstorm VII**

Fenris was ruled by power. Only the strongest lived—or so would one hear from the warriors, as they bragged who killed the biggest beast. But living by this creed had its dangers. If you stumbled, if you showed a bit of weakness, the other predators would fall upon you and tear you apart.

Brute strength was not all.

"We cannot simply burn and pillage," Leman said. "Sooner or later, more tribes will unite again, and we will be overcome."

Thorgerd nodded. "And you have plans to prevent that?"

Skjalds would claim that word-cunning, a glib tongue and a quick mind gave one greater power than a strong body. A cunning man could trick a warrior into doing his bidding, and snare a beast so that it would never catch him. And yet, again, if you stumbled but once, those you had tricked would fall upon you and your sweet words would not shield you against fists and knives.

Words were not all.

"Yes, I do," Leman replied. "We will need allies."

For a moment, they both sat in silence, until Bulveye entered, followed by the twins, Geri and Freki. Between them a merchant cowered, clearly both awed and terrified at the prospect of being in the presence of both Leman and Thorgerd.

"He has news of the Ascommani," Bulveye announced, pushing the man forward.

The man stumbled, before righting himself. His eyes darted across the room, carefully avoiding the gazes of both Thorgerd and Leman.

"Bring the man some mjod," Leman said jovially. "He looks thirsty."

The man swallowed, his eyes growing wider. As a mere merchant, he could only expect to be offered ale—mjod was a drink of the jarls, their warriors and kings. He was being given a great honour, and seemingly on an impulse.

"Thank you, my Lord," he rasped.

"Can't let a man die of thirst, can I?" Leman laughed, and the merchant gulped again, his eyes drawn to the sharp canines.

A thrall hurried in with a drinking horn, and offered it to the man, who gulped down the alcohol nervously. Finally, he managed to meet Thorgerd's gaze, but held it only for a brief moment.

"Now, about the Ascommani?" she said.

* * *

Power had many sources and a true ruler had to know how to wield all of them.

Even the best plans were subject to chance. Building alliances was easy if you had something the other side wanted. If you could help them bring revenge for lost lands or stolen goods, if you could trade goods or hostages, then creating one was not a problem.

But there were other, less certain ways to build an alliance. The Ascommani had agreed to join with the Russ on the condition that Thorgerd's firstborn would marry the daughter of their King. It was a reasonable request, but the promise had been made too early.

Snorri Bulveyesson had been a bright, strong youth. He would have made a good king and a good warrior, were it not for sheer bad luck. During his first raid, at the tender age of fifteen, he had tripped during a fight. His opponent had leapt at the chance and beheaded him.

Thorgerd's second son had died in infancy and the third boy was still in the crib—Arnbjorg of the Ascommani refused to be wed to a babe and instead ran off with one of her father's men.

The girl was caught and given to Thorgerd as a thrall by her own people as a compensation for the insult.

* * *

Fenris was not a world that could be conquered easily. Outside of Asaheim, islands would sink and rise from the sea unpredictably, forcing many tribes to move from place to place. One could never be sure, if one would be able to return to a village one had visited a week ago.

One tribe could not hope to conquer Fenris—but the same could not be said about building a network of alliances. It took longer, but neither Leman nor Thorgerd aged. They could bide their time.

Or so they had thought.

It all changed on the day the Allfather came.

A lone traveller was an oddity, and the cloaked man had chosen to show up just as the feast was beginning. Rangver's eldest daughter was just handing Leman and Thorgerd their horns with mjod, when the stranger entered. He looked around calmly, taking in the wooden walls, the warriors, the tables as if they all were not what he had been expecting. As if he was disappointed.

Then his gaze met Leman's eyes. Unlike almost every man and woman Thorgerd had known, he didn't look away. That told her that this was something unusual, and that the man was more than just a traveller.

"You are the King of the Russ and the Stormqueen?" he asked, in an oddly accented voice.

Out of the corner of her eye, Thorgerd noticed Leman's nod. His body was tense and there was something about his expression that told her he was sensing something. She felt her power crackle at her finger tips and heard Bulveye hiss, as he pulled away his hand from her shoulder. Startled, she realized that she was building up static.

"Will you fight me?" the stranger asked.

Geri and several other warriors started laughing, amused by what they perceived as the stupidity of the traveller, but their laughter died quickly. Leman and Thorgerd rose as one.

"Yes," she said, just as Leman growled his confirmation.

* * *

The island was too small to be of any practical use. It really served only one purpose—as an arena for holmgangs. Thorgerd and Leman had sailed there with the stranger to conduct their own duel. Neither should be nervous, and yet Leman felt his instincts scream at him to be wary. Something was afoot.

The man walked a few paces and then turned to face them, still cool and collected, sword in hand. Slowly, they started circling each other. Normally, Leman would be able to tell by the stance where a man was from, but the stranger's movements seemed to elude him.

Then Thorgerd brought her arm out and sent a lightning bolt at the man. Leisurely, as if he had done this his whole life, the man caught it. For a moment, it danced around his fingers, and then faded.

Leman and Thorgerd froze. That had never happened before.

Then, in what was shorter than a heartbeat, the man somehow got to them and knocked Thorgerd's hammer from her hand. She scrambled after it, trying to raise a curtain of lightning to shield her but it faltered and disappeared before the man.

"Witch!" Leman roared and charged at him.

Their swords met, again and again. For the first time in his life, Leman of the Russ was fighting a man who was his equal. A man whom he could not overpower with sheer brute strength.

No, not equal—the stranger was better. The realization came with a sense of cold shock—this odd man could defeat him any moment. Their eyes met again, and he saw that the stranger's were golden, but not like his. Like glowing coins, endless and ancient.

Leman stumbled back, his sword falling, just as Thorgerd joined him. He looked at the man, and truly saw him for the first time. Almost involuntarily, Leman of the Russ bent his knee and breathed one word: "Father."


	11. Thunderstorm VIII

**Thunderstorm VIII**

On the day the Allfather came, everything changed for the Russ.

Fenris had been just a world out of many, and its warriors were not even close to being the mightiest across the stars. The Allfather did not come alone. With him, he brought his own warriors. Giants in ornamented gold armour, and wild warriors in grey, who claimed to be Leman's sons. As outlandish as the claim was, their appearance gave credence to it. Some had black pinned golden eyes like his, and all had his wolfish cast to their features. They were the mightiest the nascent Imperium of Man had to offer.

The youths of Fenris were deemed potential candidates to join their ranks. The grown experienced warriors were all told they would risk death if they insisted on taking the Trial of the Wolf.

"I'm going to die anyway," Bulveye laughed. "Might as well die trying."

Others followed—both Thorgerd's and Leman's hirths declared they would either join them in making murder across the stars or die trying. One after another they rose and proclaimed their readiness. They had followed the King of the Russ and the Stormqueen across the turbulent seas of Fenris. They would follow them when they left to conquer the stars.

But the warriors were not the only ones the Allfather brought. Odd creatures in red robes came as well, and with them contraptions of steel and adamantium that belched oily smoke as they dug through earth or rock. They were directed to build a new seat for the warriors, one that Leman chose. His sons would reside in the highest mountain, away from the other tribes and their feuds.

The Russ and several allied tribes would move there as well, their fate now forever tied with that of the Wolves of Fenris.

* * *

Serenity sat at her father's side and watched the VIth and his adopted sister, the Bellatrix. She was doing her best to maintain her cool, but she had simply not expected the other woman to be that much older than her. It was one thing to know in theory that Warp travel could lead to temporal paradoxes and another to witness one first hand. And yet, the other woman did not look her age at all—she appeared to be in her mid-twenties instead of forty. And then, there was Leman of the Russ, who was nothing like Horus: wild like a giant wolf, and oozing danger instead of radiating charisma. Both were silent, and she did not blame them for being unwilling to speak just yet. The announcement that one's father made you to be his executioner was not easy to swallow.

"Every man has his wyrd," Leman finally said.

Thorgerd turned her head sharply at those words and to Serenity's shock, slapped Leman. Her hand crackled with thunder and it left a red handprint on his cheek for a few minutes. "You're just going to agree to become an attack dog?"

Leman shook his head. "I will not become an attack dog. I am one. I have always been one."

Thorgerd's frown did not lighten, and if anything she now appeared to be insulted.

Serenity hesitated. The other Bellatrix was an intimidating presence, and she was clearly not taking the situation well. Still, her father appeared to be content to let the situation unfold, so perhaps it was her cue. Maybe it was some sort of a test, to see if she would be of more use? Determined to show how much she had grown, she started to speak, "You are not merely-"

"No, I'm not merely an attack dog," Leman said, interrupting Serenity. "But I am what I am. I know this and Thorgerd knows this too." He turned to look at the tall woman, a feral smile playing over his lips. "And you will come with me, won't you, sister? You let your husband and your son join my army. You've already made your choice."

Thorgerd remained silent for a moment, before nodding slowly. "Yes, I did."

* * *

He was still unmistakably Bulveye. His eyes had remained icy blue, for which Thorgerd was absurdly grateful. It would have been unnerving to meet her brother's beast-like eyes when looking into the face of her husband.

It helped to alleviate the sense of wrongness as she craned her head up to look at him. Thorgerd was not used to people being this much taller than her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Well," Bulveye replied, canines flashing behind his beard. They all had Leman's sharp teeth now. "I'm stronger than ever."

Thorgerd smiled back. A warrior ought to be proud of his strength. "Alvar took the Trial. Your son is doing as well as you are."

Bulveye nodded. The silence that fell was different than before his change. There was something new and tense in it, and at the same time something else was missing. It took her a moment to realize what it was, since it was something she had taken for granted for years. All the many little signs that he found her attractive were gone from Bulveye's behaviour; he hadn't glanced at her chest even once.

She frowned, considering her next words. The Allfather had said those who became Wolves would change. Perhaps she ought to have not taken for granted that he simply meant growing larger and hairier.

"Do you love me?" she asked.

Bulveye's confused stare met her own. "I… Yes, of course. You're my Queen and my battle-sister…"

His voice trailed off and for a moment they stared at one another in silence.

* * *

Only forty men were left of Thorgerd's and Leman's hirths. The others were gone, having failed the Trial of the Wolf. Most had died. Some of the deaths had been painful, with once mighty warriors howling in agony as their bodies rejected the implants. Others died in their sleep, or fell dead during physical exertion.

They were not the worst.

Thorgerd watched the two beasts, one black, the other white, as they rested their large canine heads on Leman's lap. They gazed up at him with eyes that were black pinned on gold, just like his own.

"Are those?.." she asked, but found herself unable to finish the sentence.

"Yes," Leman replied. "Freki and Geri."

Thorgerd swallowed, almost reflexively imagining Bulveye like this. Seeing what had become of the twin brothers made her husband's new form easier to bear. The thought of her husband made her sigh. He still appeared familiar, and yet… there was something missing, something that had existed between them for years and now was extinguished.

"Why so glum, sister?" Leman asked. "Did you have a row with Bulveye?"

"What's the use of an ageless husband, if he only wants to be friends?"


	12. Thunderstorm IX

**Thunderstorm IX**

"My dear Alienor—may I call you Alienor?—I'm sure we do not have to resort to such extreme measures," Horus says. He smiles patiently, and though he has met the woman scant moments ago, he treats her like a friend.

"My Lord, I-I…" the woman stutters slightly, but Horus holds up a hand.

"Please, call me Horus," he says. "There's no need for such formality."

It's quite simple, when Leman Russ considers this. By using her first name, Horus places the woman underneath himself in hierarchy, but also creates a sense of familiarity. When he asks if he's allowed to use her given name, he gives her a sense of power—and then he suggests that she uses his given name, placing them on the same social level.

This is not just simple politeness: this is the face Horus shows to others: the involved patrician, the caring father, the good friend, but it's not exactly a mask. Horus does not pretend to be kind, but this kindness works for him. And he is not the only one who acts like this.

"How is your cousin today?" Serenity asks. It's only the second time she has met the representative, and as far as Leman Russ knows his cousin and his illness were only mentioned in passing.

"He's better," the man Serenity is talking with answers, and smiles gratefully. "I would not have thought you would remember, my Lady."

"Just Serenity is fine," she says meeting his smile with her own. She's not just being polite: she is wearing almost the same masks as Horus: the caring mother, the good friend, the involved princess.

A part of it is that they are the kind of people who reach out to others, but another is politics. Leman Russ knows that every act of a king has its consequences, and he has no doubt Horus and Serenity know it too. As he considers their behaviour, he remembers words he had never learned.

_Face is the negotiated public image-_

At first, Leman Russ is baffled. Those are not his words, not his thoughts, but those of a long dead man, based on teachings he had never studied. The concept of "face" does not really exist on Fenris—it's taken from long dead cultures and carried over to a different field, one that didn't… No, that's not true.

It mattered on Fenris, but he had never thought about it. He just knew. But now… now the situation is different, and he can't just know—he has to understand. And he does. If he wants to he can analyze any given moment and consider how it fits into this knowledge.

When Horus or Serenity call somebody by their first name, they do not just ascertain their higher social status. By agreeing to this, the other participant confirms they believe they are lower in hierarchy. That the negotiations continue catches them off guard, makes them more pliant.

But there is more.

_Face is a sense of worth that comes from knowing one's status and reflects concern with the congruency between one's performance or appearance and one's real worth_.

Horus and Serenity know where they stand. They build their relations with others from a position of power. They can allow themselves to step down and show a human face.

_The term face may be defined as the positive social value a person effectively claims for himself by the line others assume he has taken during a particular contact. Face is an image of self delineated in terms of approved social attributes._

Leman Russ had been the King of the Russ, the ring-giver, for most of his life. This is the role he takes when interacting with others. It worked on Fenris, but on Terra it is… archaic. It catches his Father's generals and bureaucrats off-guard. They expect a second Horus, but instead they meet a barbarian king in furs.

And they forget what he is. They see a primitive warlord instead of a Primarch. They see a grinning and straight-forward man instead of a king. It is their own failing, if they cannot recognize he's more than that.

Leman Russ understands the difference between a face and a mask—but who says those two have to be completely different? The best lies have a grain of truth, and the best masks are based on a real face. It does not have to be his own face.

* * *

**AN **The next chapter will be posted in www . fanfiction s / 8920505 / 1 / Lovehammer-GE-Serene-Star .


	13. De Nebula Ferrea I

**De Nebula Ferrea**

Everyone had heard of the man with the silver hands. They told tales of him defeating all manners of beasts, both fantastic and real, of his skill with weapon-making, of his volcanic temper, but those that interested Ilona most were the ones that told of his knowledge of lost technology. There weren't many, truth to be told—most cared more about the slaying of monsters.

It made sense—Medusa was a hostile world, and every inhabitant had to worry about their own survival. Listening to stories about someone who could make it safer, if only for a moment, lifted spirits. For most, this was enough, but Ilona wanted to know. She wanted to learn: what made Medusa so dangerous, so volatile, how the ancient machines her clan owned worked and how they were built, who this mysterious giant was…

Her parents and the clan elders had long ago stopped being able to provide answers for the ever flowing river of questions. Frankly, she suspected some had had quite enough of her long ago, given that every explanation they gave to her was met with instant probing and examination. Nowadays, she tended to seek answers on her own, be it in old manuscripts or by fiddling around with whatever the clan would not mind to see dismantled.

Then, one day, she heard that her brothers and cousins had seen the man with the silver hands and something that had been so far quietly nesting in her mind bloomed into an idea. She would seek this mysterious giant out and ask him to teach her.

* * *

A lonely traveller was always at risk. Ilona was quite aware of that, but back in the safety of the crawler, she had considered the danger quite acceptable. Now that she was actually out there, she was forced to re-evaluate her position.

She hid behind a large boulder, knowing that the beast had her scent and would not let her go. Flight was not an option; she would have to fight. With a thought she drew a thick curtain of mist around herself and the surrounding area. It would distort sounds, hide her movements and confuse her scent; give her a few minutes.

The beast stopped, confused by the sudden change of weather. It turned its head left and right, trying to catch Ilona's spoor again. The young woman slid around the rock, so that she could peer past it and watch the looming shadow. Her mist had its downsides—it obscured her vision as much as that of those trying to catch or harm her. Still, she could make out the general shape of the animal.

She focused her power again, forming five whips of water. They created a rough circle around the beast and as soon as they sprung to existence they lashed against it, caging it. The creature reared and bucked, trying to free itself, but the watery tendrils coiled around it, forcing it stay in place.

Ilona levelled her gun and shot. The first went wide, since her concentration wavered a bit and the beast managed to evade by moving its head. The second and the third were true, however, piercing the red cavern of the animal's maw and exiting through the back of its skull. It slumped and Ilona let the mist dissipate.

She rose slowly; looking around to make sure the beast had been alone, when she saw the giant. For the first time, she could appreciate how true the description was—he practically loomed over her, like a mighty keep over a cottage. And his hands really were silver—as were the piercing eyes that measured her. And he clearly was not liking what he was seeing, judging from the frown that creased his already craggy features.

"What are you doing out here alone, you little idiot?" he snapped.

Ilona froze at first, feeling the man's scrutiny on her, but somehow she shook it off. She had her purpose. As the giant approached her, she squared her shoulders and said, "I am Ilona of clan Karguul. I want to learn from you."

* * *

The forge called to him. Had he been more poetically inclined, he might have thought of music and souls, but for Ferrus Manus such lofty words had little meaning. He was a smith and a warrior first and foremost. Whatever else he might have been was a mystery he could not solve.

The metal was still white hot as he shaped it, the sound of metal ringing against metal loud in his ears. Slowly, the iron was becoming a sword, its shape changing gradually. There was still work ahead of him, but the end result was becoming clearer by the second.

He could not do the same with himself—as much as he tried, he could not shape himself into something he would know. Parts of him were hidden from himself. To shape metal, one must know it: its weaknesses, the point when it melts and when it breaks.

How could he shape himself if he did not know any of that about himself?

* * *

Ferrus Manus had not expected that kind of answer. He sized the young woman up again—she did not seem out of ordinary from what he could see. Strands of black hair slid out from a sensible-looking hat into a pale face and a pair of blue eyes met his gaze.

He gave a bullish snort. "Why should I teach you?"

Her eyebrows rose, but Ilona of clan Karguul kept her calm. "Because I wish to learn. I want to know why the world is the way that it is."

Ferrus Manus shrugged, but inwardly he was starting to feel a grudging admiration. This woman had the guts to seek him out, instead of secluding herself in the safety of the crawler of her clan. "And what makes you think I have the answers?"

The young woman seemed to consider her answer, her lips pursed in concentration. "You may not have all the answers, but they say you know about the old machines. Perhaps you know less than in the stories, but even then, whatever I would learn from you would be worth putting myself at risk."

He was used to travelling alone. Another person with him would force him to acclimatize, maybe change some habits. On the other hand, he did not want to refuse outright, given that it did seem he had misjudged and Ilona of clan Karguul at least had a fairly good reason to search for him. Furthermore, she was capable of protecting herself—the carcass of the beast was proof enough of her skill with a gun. He would not have to nanny her.

Besides, perhaps by teaching someone, he would learn more about himself.

"I will allow a test period," he said. "You have a month to convince me you are worthy of being my apprentice."

* * *

Ferrus Manus had proven to be a very exacting companion. He expected Ilona to keep up with his long stride and to be able to fend for herself. The only allowance he made for her was stopping for the night.

The first lesson she had to learn was field-stripping her gun. She had thought she could do it, but not according to the silver-handed giant. He had her take it apart and put back again so many times her hands were cramping the first evening and the second. Slowly, it became a kind of a ritual, with Ferrus Manus standing over her and glowering on her efforts.

Another might have given in and left, but not Ilona. She reassembled the gun over and over, until by the end of the week, she heard, "Very good. You're learning."

The second lesson was a more complex one. They had arrived at one of the clan crawlers and Ferrus Manus decided that she could make her own weapon. He had lead her into a forge, and she had to marvel that it had been simply left to his use. The smith wasn't even there, his tools neatly arranged under one of the walls. Only the simplest automatic processes were still running and Ilona had to fight down the urge to leave her teacher, and check if they were operating on the same principles as those at home had been.

Ferrus Manus placed several bars of iron before her, but instead of telling her to get to work, he started telling her about the metal.

"This is not pure iron," he said.

Ilona nodded. "Of course. Pure iron is too soft to be of any use, besides it's not obtainable by smelting."

Ferrus Manus nodded. "Yes. But it's still not what you will make your weapon from. This is the beginning—you will make steel from this."

Ilona's eyebrows knotted in a frown. "Why? Isn't it going to take longer that way?"

"Because this is not really about making a weapon," Ferrus Manus replied, leaning against the wall. "This is about the different kinds of knowing. You know about metallurgy, but only in theory. To truly understand something, you have to practice—just like with your gun and field-stripping it."

Ilona nodded. "Of course, but I don't want to be a weapon smith. I want to-"

Ferrus Manus pushed himself away from the wall and leaned towards her. "You wanted to learn, and I am teaching you. We can discuss what you want or not after you have learned your lesson."

* * *

Ilona was stubborn. Not as obstinate as he was, but she hadn't given up so far. She hadn't wanted to make a weapon, but once rebuked she set to work. It had not gone smoothly, but not as abominably as it could have. The young woman could apply the theory to practice and that did help with not committing the most basic mistakes.

She did not appear happy with the task set before her, but since she worked diligently Ferrus Manus did not consider it something of importance. If she truly did not wish to learn on his terms, she could leave any time. Since she was still there, obviously, she was not discouraged by the test.

It was when the girl reached the point where the metal needed to quenched that he realized there was far more to Ilona than he had first thought. Water sprung from the basin and enveloped the metal, cooling it at, as far as he could tell, just the right pace. He watched it snake around it, sizzling and bubbling for seconds, and then cool almost instantly.

"That fog… that was you?" he asked. Back than it had seemed odd and unnatural, but he had filed it for later, too surprised by her question to really analyze it.

"Yes," Ilona replied. "I'm sorry, I should have told you. I thought you knew."

* * *

**AN: **And Ferrus Manus is lucky enough to end up with Sailor Mercury. Who you might notice does not have blue hair anymore. It's a conscious choice to make the whole thing a bit more serious.


	14. De Nebula Ferrea II

**De Nebula Ferrea II**

Ferrus Manus had not been distracted by the discovery of her powers. He had her return to work as soon as the conversation was over and busied himself with forging on his own. Her work was going much slower than she would have liked, and she wondered if she would really manage to convince Ferrus Manus in a month to take her on as an apprentice. She wasn't even certain if she wanted to be one any longer.

There were so many fascinating things she could have been studying and he had her cooped up in an empty forge, practicing making steel. Then again, she wasn't going to be rash. True, the current "lesson" did not seem to be one that would benefit her, but perhaps the future ones would be worth it. If he was willing to give her a chance, she should not discount it easily.

And then, the steel she had been working on cracked, as she was tempering it. She had done something wrong and yet…

"You need to know the metal," Ferrus Manus said sternly. "You know the theory, but it's worthless until you learn to put it into practice."

Ilona looked up at him, her brows knotted in a frown. Then slowly, a rueful smile spread over her features. "I'm sorry. You are right."

For a moment the giant watched her stoically, before stating, "Now you understand. Back to work."

* * *

Once the matter of wanting was out of the way, Ilona proved to be an… enthusiastic student. She clearly did enjoy learning, though not the mishaps that accompanied it. Those seemed to mostly embarrass her, as if she expected she should not make them.

Ferrus Manus did not console her. Mistakes were a part of learning and she had to learn how to deal with them on her own.

For now, however, she was providing herself with quite enough learning material on her own. Clearly, she was not a smith by calling. Her first attempt was frankly pathetic, the second and third not much better.

And yet, she did not give up. She grew frustrated, though he could only tell this because she was unaware he could hear her muttered curses, but she tried again and again. Around the seventh attempt at making a knife, Ferrus Manus sat down in front of her, and asked, "So, what did you learn?"

"That metal is secretly conspiring against me," Ilona shot back, before blinking and covering her mouth with her hands.

It was both her words and reaction that made him laugh. It was a hearty booming sound—and it seemed to have caught the young woman completely by surprise. She stared at him with a mix of indignation and wide-eyed shock, until he finally stopped laughing.

"Beat it into submission," he said, shaking his head.

* * *

When Ferrus Manus was finally satisfied with her efforts Ilona knew that she not only did not wish to be a smith—she knew she had no calling for it. On the other hand, she had learned how to make a weapon, though it was merely a hunting knife. It was simple—nothing like her giant teacher could produce, but she found herself oddly attached to her work. She had spent so long perfecting it…

"You have potential," he said, as she was putting the small blade away. "Not as a smith, but as an apprentice in general."

She offered him an uncertain smile, even if the praise was barbed. "Thank you. I'll do my best."

That earned her one of those bullish half-annoyed snorts. "Don't thank me yet. The month isn't over."

Ilona nodded. She somehow doubted he would be easily convinced. Still, she had to wonder what else he expected of her. Perhaps, they would finally start working on something more complex? The cogitators were all but calling to her and there were numerous other matters she wanted to find out.

"Let's put that weapon of yours and your powers to the test," Ferrus Manus said. "We're going hunting."

Ilona gave him an irritated look, before saying, "I can kill beasts fine—you've seen me."

"I've seen a lot of mist," the giant replied. "It could have been a fluke."

* * *

Ilona was only a marginally more enthusiastic hunter than she was a smith. Ferrus Manus decided that he'd count that she was not demonstrating it too obviously as a plus. He was not going to be unreasonable and expect her to like the same things he did. Besides, it would be a character-building experience.

She needed that—she needed hands on experience first and foremost. Her head was already filled with facts, factoids and trivia, and she would accumulate more with or without his help. But if she was left alone, she would never wander outside of her comfort zone and never truly learn. Safety was pleasant, but not challenging, and how could one learn without challenges?

The wind bit into them, howling like a doomed soul. It did carry other sounds, though he wondered if Ilona heard them at all. Others seemed to have such weak senses, so easily overwhelmed.

"Did you hear that? Something's following us," he said, stopping.

Ilona shook her head—she hadn't tried to make herself heard over the wind ever since its force had grown. That had suited him fine. Ferrus Manus had never been a consummate conversationalist and that had not changed since the young woman had joined him.

"Don't use your fog," he said, as Ilona took out her gun. "It might run away, if you hide us too early."

She didn't look happy, but complied. He let it slide that she stood behind him—she was still just a human and that meant being so much more fragile.

They stood still, and he had to feel at least mildly impressed the woman was not shivering. She held her gun trained, scanning the area with alertness, but it was him who heard the beast coming. It had tried to sneak up on them, but he twisted just in time to see the dark grey fur flash between some nearby stones. It froze, as if sensing it had been spotted, but just for a moment.

It sprung from its hiding place seconds later, charging at Ferrus Manus. It was dark grey and slender, with sinuous tentacles rising from its shoulders. They called it a falling beast or a falling panthera. The giant wondered almost reflexively on the sheer absurdity of the name before turning to face the attack, but it never came—instead Ilona stumbled into him saved from injury only by her thick clothes. The fabric was torn over her chest where the clawed tentacle had struck, but somehow Ilona managed to keep her composure.

Shining tendrils of water sprung around them, like a protective cage. They twisted, almost mirroring the movement of the beast's tentacles. It hissed at them, baring its teeth and one of the water whips lashed out.

It appeared to have connected, but instead of wrapping around the animal, it passed through it and the beast's slender body appeared several meters away. Ferrus Manus breathed in, letting his other senses try to locate the beast.

The wind howled in his ears, the water splashed, and the beast's tread was light. And yet, he heard it: the panting, the crackle of half-frozen snow under its paws… He glanced at Ilona, but she was still looking around, still trying to see the animal. With her weak human senses, she had little chances of spotting the animal—he had a better chance of killing it. He made the first step, but he felt her hand brush against his arm.

"I can tire it out," she said, meeting his gaze for a brief moment.

It startled him, but he stepped back. If she thought she could win… She was the one who was supposed to prove their worth here.

* * *

Exhausting the beast seemed like the most logical choice. She could not be certain where it was and so could not capture it as she would have normally done. Instead, she'd force it to waste as much energy as possible, and hope it wouldn't be able to maintain the illusion when tired.

The tendrils surrounding them twisted and turned, until they formed an undulating dome of water. The beast would still see them, and it would come—its fierce territorial instinct would not let it leave trespassers remain and compete for its prey.

Soon enough the animal tried to jump through the water dome and she repelled it easily. She glimpsed its shape before it rolled away, apparently several meters from where it attacked. Ilona frowned, a thought occurring to her. She'd have to wait to test it, but perhaps there was another way to beat this beast.

It circled them, giving a frustrated roar, before dashing at them again. Once more, she could see its shape in the water before it was repelled. No, she did not have to wait. She drew the fog around the area, but this time not to obscure—it needed not be as thick as she would usually make it. The water dome that shielded them so far fell.

A shape moved through the mist; made vague by the moisture in the air, but it was quite enough. Ilona raised her gun, watching the beast as it turned at them. It was confused, but this wouldn't last long. Soon it would try attacking them again.

She aimed and shot. The first bullet grazed the beast's paw, but the second went through its chest. It turned and stumbled as the third shot bit into its leg and then the fourth finally struck its head. It collapsed and Ilona let the mist disperse.

"Very good planning," Ferrus Manus commented, as he checked the fallen animal. "Your aim could be better, though."


	15. De Nebula Ferrea III

**De Nebula Ferrea III**

Her aim did improve. Of course, that was inevitable when she spent ours shooting at targets that Ferrus set up for her. Aim-fire-reload became another sequence of motions that she learned to do as naturally as breathing. She also knew much better than to protest.

By now she realised that what he wanted most in an apprentice was that she shut up and did as she was told – unless he asked her something. Then he expected her to answer without simple recourse to what she had learned. And it was this, more than anything, which kept her from giving up. Someone who understood the value of research and of questions, of empirical data beyond tradition.

He knew far more than she did. And yet, contrary to the Sages in the clans, he did not use this to quell her questions and her lines of inquiry. In the Clan, Ilona had been a tolerated member of a rigid society that gave everybody their place – and brooked no disagreement. Ferrus saw her as an asset, not a liability. Even if he seemed to value skills that didn't seem all that important to her.

And so the month passed. On the evening of the 30th day, Ilona waited nervously while she turned a rock lizard on a spit over their campfire. Since Ferrus's eating habits were – unorthodox to say the least – she had always prepared her own meals. He sat on the other side of the fire, more living rock than man, and whittled something out of a piece of soapstone. He did not use a chisel.

Shouldn't he tell her now? She did not dare to ask, and he was as forthcoming as usual, when he did not have a lesson on his mind. Eventually, she crawled into her bedroll and tried to sleep. Maybe she had miscalculated? Maybe it was the wrong day.

But on the next day, as she woke and swallowed the remains of the lizard cold, she found him standing on a hill nearby, watching something in the distance. He said nothing to her, merely waited with barely concealed impatience and set out towards some sort of speck on the horizon. The entire day, he was taciturn as usual, merely giving her the occasional target to shoot or soil and stone sample to collect.

As they stopped for the evening, Ilona was at least able to see where they were heading – a tower on the flank of a mountain. As she viewed it through her magnoculars, she found that it was abandoned and half ruined, built of rusted steel girders on a foundation of featureless grey material. Ferrus watched her scrutiny and finally asked: "What do you think is this?"

Ilona hesitated. She had some ideas, but… She wanted to know. If he wasn't going to say, she needed to ask. "It was a month yesterday", she said.

"No, it's not a month." Ferrus's silver eyes were utterly expressionless. "Look harder."

Was he making fun of her? He did have a sense of humour, but it was like Medusa itself – wild and unpredictable. Unless he roared his booming laugh, she did not know if he was amused.

"No, not the tower. It was a month yesterday since you took me in."

"You didn't answer my question."

Ilona swallowed a sigh and looked up at her teacher. She wanted to give in, but would he ever accept her if she did not stand up for herself? She had quickly learned that while he wanted obedience, he despised weakness. Ducking your head for fear. If it was important to her, then she would have to defy him.

"I won't. Not until you answer mine. Will you accept me as your apprentice?" She forced herself to hold his steel gaze and not flinch.

Finally, he laughed. It shook him, like an eruption shakes a volcano and it was just as unexpected and violent. Pebbles began to dance on the ground. Then he clapped her, very gently, on the shoulder. "Of course I will. I'd have sent you away if I wouldn't." He propelled her around him and directed her gaze towards the tower again.

"Now, what do you see there, apprentice?"

* * *

Ferrus Manus wondered when the tales would start now that he had accepted Ilona as his apprentice. They seemed to follow him wherever he went. All knew he had slain a great wyrm and tricked a storm giant. What would all know about Ilona in a few years? Did she even consider that?

"Have you ever tried using the moisture in a body?" he asked, chasing the thoughts away.

Ilona looked up at him; then shook her head. "No," she said. "I tried with plants a few times, but…"

She trailed off for a moment, frowning in concentration.

"Well?" he asked, impatient about the pause.

"It doesn't work," Ilona replied. "I know—I mean I learned that there's water in living organisms, but I just can't feel it. Not like a river or a pond."

That was rather unexpected, though truthfully, he probably should have guessed this would be the case. Ilona was pragmatic and had she been able to manipulate water in living organisms, she would have used those skills. Given her personality, he shouldn't have doubted she had already investigated it, either.

"Where do you take it from, anyway?" he asked. It had bothered him for some time now—his common sense all but physically itched at the prospect of something from nothing. And yet, he had no answer for the phenomenon other than that. The air on Medusa was not particularly moist and if she'd… drag it from some body of water, it would be visible and take much more time.

"I… it's…" Ilona paused, biting her lower lip in frustration. "It flows within my mind."

Ferrus shook his head. "That tells me absolutely nothing."

She offered him a helpless smile. "That makes the two of us."

* * *

There were some true elements to the story. Clan Garrask was indeed having a hard time because their crawler got stranded in territory where a colony of burrower beasts lived. Ferrus Manus and Ilona were in the vicinity and Ferrus Manus did decide that it would be a fine opportunity for Ilona to get some more combat experience.

Burrower beasts weren't truly trying opponents. Once flushed out of their tunnels, they were slow and cumbersome. Usually, it was getting them out that was the hardest part of getting rid of them. As such, the hunt itself had been simple, as Ilona had flooded the tunnels.

Nobody would believe Ferrus Manus would have been involved in a hunt that easy. And so, the story had grown with each and every telling. The burrower queen—a mythical creature from which all beasts of the kind were spawned was said to have made her nest in the valley. Her offspring would take young children to feed her and guarded her fiercely, killing all who would come near.

Ferrus Manus appeared, as he was wont to do in such tales, having heard of a creature that might prove to be a test. This time, a young woman came with him. After a few decades, her origin would start becoming a mystery, but at this point they still called her Ilona of clan Karguul.

The iron-handed giant assessed the situation and told Ilona to fix it. All present were shocked, according to the story, but the woman remained resolute. She marched into the valley. The burrowers attacked her of course, but she had summoned a mighty tide of water and had drowned them all.

Then, the queen emerged, enraged by the deaths of her sons. She spat acid or breathed fire or even shot lightning, all depending on who told the tale. Ilona remained calm and summoned a blade of ice for herself.

The beast and the woman clashed. For three days and three nights they battled.

In the crawler, the elders of clan Garrask each came to plead with Ferrus Manus and asked him to help his apprentice. Surely, he could not expect one woman to defeat the dread burrower queen? But the giant remained unmoved and waited.

On the fourth day, Ilona returned, holding the frozen head of the queen as her trophy.

* * *

"They say I did what?" Ilona asked, her voice rising very uncharacteristically in shock.

Morana had been a friend before she had left to search for Ferrus Manus. It did not seem to have lasted—the other woman was clearly ill at ease around Ilona and as much as she would have wished it were otherwise not all of it was because of the presence of her teacher.

"Well, you've always been very smart," Morana said, rather defensively.

Ilona had not expected that—she hadn't really stopped to think how others would treat her once she became Ferrus Manus's apprentice. It never occurred to her that people who had known her their whole lives would act as if she were some sort of dangerous… curiosity.

"Yes, but some things are simply impossible," Ilona said, her frown deepening.

"You know that, they don't," Ferrus Manus stated.

Morana shrunk back, uncertain how to act around the giant. Ilona found that surprising—her teacher was not even annoyed yet and despite that her friend acted as if he were some sort of primed explosive ready to go off at the lightest touch.

"I'm sorry," Ilona said softly. "It's not your fault—you only asked me."

Morana offered her a smile, but it was brittle and nervous. "That's nothing. Oh, but look at the time, I have to go. My son is waiting."

She took a few steps back, before turning around and walking away at a brisk pace.

"I didn't even know she had a child…" Ilona said.

* * *

Ferrus Manus had expected her to ask about his hands, but he had thought it would be much earlier. It was the one thing that set him apart the most—more than his size and prowess. His name referred to them. People thought of him as the man with silver hands, first, and slayer of monsters, smith, later.

Perhaps he should not have been surprised it was hearing stories about herself that tempted Ilona to ask. He looked at her from behind the anvil.

"You heard the stories, did you not?" he asked.

She nodded. "Of the wyrm, of your fight with it, how you drowned it in lava and its skin covered your hands."

Ferrus Manus nodded, looking down at the silver metal of his hands. It glinted, reflecting the light of the lumen strips and the red glow of cooling metal. He always felt them to be alien, not truly his.

"That's what they say," he said.

"What do you say?" she replied, cocking her head to the side.

"Nothing," Ferrus Manus replied. "I… do not remember it. Only flashes. Waking up. A silver wyrm. The need to find it. To bring it down. A valley filled with lava. It does not make sense."

He closed his eyes, but the images remained vague and fleeting as always. They broke and faded into darkness, before he could grasp them, truly remember them. What came before was just as scattered. He thought he remembered glyphs, but at the same time he could almost remember so many other things. Try as he might, tale and truth had mingled in his mind, and he doubted he would ever be able to force them apart.

Then he felt small fingers wrap around his hand. His eyes snapped open, and he pulled away, feeling resentment well up. Did she think him so weak he needed consolation?

He glared at her, and realized his mistake. She had been looking at his hands and her gaze only held confusion, when she met his eyes. Then, it turned to concentration again, as she turned towards his silver limbs again.

"Pain can cloud memories," she said. "If you were… desperate enough to push your hands into lava, it must have hurt."

Ferrus Manus shrugged. "It is not important."

Hesitantly, the young woman turned his hand over again, running her fingertips over his palm. It felt eerie. He was used to having full tactile sensation in his fingers, but normally he gripped things. To passively submit to a touch was new.

"They are featureless", she noted. "No lines in your palm, no fingerprints. Do they scratch or scar?"

He shook his head. "Not permanently. Every blemish disappears again, quickly."

She looked up at him, as if to gauge his mood.

"Ask it, whatever it is."

"Make a fist, please." She withdrew her hands, and then watched as he bent his fingers and rolled them in. His fist was as big as her head. She had seen him pound red hot metal and shatter stone, yet if she felt any apprehension in handling this lethal weapon, she hid it well. Once more, she touched the featureless surface.

"It is still the structure of a hand. Here, the knuckles, the phalanges. The bones and even the tendons do still show when you move." Her expression was thoughtful. "Do you know if they are massive, metal through and through, or if it is still just a skin over your original hand?"

With a frown, Ferrus looked at his limbs. That was a question he had never asked himself.

* * *

**AN **The next update will be late, so, posting this earlier. And I'm going to pat myself on the back, because I managed to get over 2000 words. :P


	16. De Nebula Ferrea IV

**De Nebula Ferrea IV**

Building a cogitator was a complex task. Even if her idea had not involved acquiring parts that would need to have been made ages ago, when Medusa was still being settled, it would have proven time-consuming. Given that she planned that it would be portable, but capable of performing complex calculations, she had no other conclusion except that her expectations were too high.

And yet… yet she still drafted plans. When she had a chance—when they met one of the clan crawlers, she would try to consult there, but in the end, she brought them to Ferrus Manus.

The giant took them and started to inspect them. After a few minutes, he started jotting his own comments. Then, he crossed them out and wrote new ones. After half an hour the edges of the paper were covered in what appeared to be a lengthy essay. After an hour, he finally ran out of space at the back of the page.

"Now I can't tell what I wrote," Ilona said reproachfully.

Ferrus Manus eyed the plans critically, before sighing. "You need better eyes. Everyone needs better eyes. Get me a few new sheets."

Perhaps, at the beginning, Ilona would have been insulted that he had such low opinion of her eye-sight, but by now she simply accepted such comments as a part of who Ferrus Manus was. And while he had many virtues, tact and understanding for the limitations of ohers were not part of them, even if the weakness was only perceived.

She left him, still jotting something, in the spaces between the drawings.

* * *

"The power-source is still a problem," Ilona said, as she looked at the plans Ferrus had made from her own. Several issues had been fixed, but this particular one was eluding her.

"Yes," Ferrus Manus agreed. "That and cooling the processor. It will over-heat after a few of the calculations you're planning."

"And I doubt covering it with ice would be a good idea, even if we make sure it's water-proof," Ilona sighed. "I suppose I might never build it."

Ferrus Manus shook his head, displeased by the sentiment. Perhaps she would call it realistic, but he did not see it so. If the circumstances were against one, one had to make them bend until they were in one's favour.

"Not this year and not in ten years, perhaps," he said. "But that does not mean never."

But Ilona wasn't listening. She was staring at the paper and then suddenly, she leaned down and started calculating something. Ferrus Manus peered over her head, scanning the numbers, even though they were up-side-down.

"You're right," she said. "I can build this version and perhaps once I see how it works, it will be easier for me to see how to improve it."

* * *

Ilona regarded the cogitator with an expression of baffled frustration. As if picking up her state, the screen flickered out and died. Her brows creased in concentration, and the machine powered up again instantly.

Both she and Ferrus Manus turned their gazes towards the other objects of their tests. A small crawler rested innocently a few meters away, the generator powering it empty. Ilona took a deep breath and focused.

The crawler remained immobile, but her cogitator started calculating how to power it.

"It's no use," she said, shaking her head.

"It also makes no sense," Ferrus Manus replied, his voice tinged with frustration. He rubbed his forehead, then brushed his hand over his short-cropped black hair. "But then your powers did not make sense before either."

"No," Ilona admitted. "But there has to be some sort of logic to them."

* * *

On the day the Imperium had come to Medusa, Ferrus Manus had been ready. He did not understand how—he had not known this day would come at all, and yet, when he saw the turbulence, the light, he knew what he must do.

It called him, louder than the forge, louder than the hunt. His fate, if such a thing existed, was there. And so, he went too meet it.

Ilona followed, as she had done over the long years since she had met him. He had not asked her what she thought, not until it was much later and his humours were balanced again. She followed without a word, perhaps accepting his lead or perhaps believing their paths were tied together. Perhaps, she had been simply curious—he thought this was most likely.

Later, they would tell legends about the day. About how he met the Emperor, how he challenged him and how they fought. Like the wyrm and his hands, it would become a part of who he was. Like the tale of Asirnoth, it was true for a given value of truth.

For others, it was a finale to a grand tale. They would tell it on cold nights to ward off their fears. For him, it was a beginning. It was the day when he finally learned more about who—what he was. A day when his questions were finally answered.

* * *

Ilona would recall the day with mixed feelings. It certainly was a momentous event that marked the beginning of a new epoch for Medusa and her people. Her own life changed as much as on the day she had first laid her eyes on Ferrus Manus.

She had followed him towards the odd lights out of many reasons. Foremost was curiosity. What could be the cause? Was it some magnificent new beast? An unrecorded natural phenomenon?

She found out soon enough. Magnificent machines nestled in the mountains, being tended by mechanized servants. Men in black armour were securing the parameter, but they parted before Ferrus Manus as a wave parts before a mountain. Her teacher homed at the centre—there, the golden warrior had been waiting for them.

She had expected many things, but not what followed. The warrior called Ferrus Manus his son—and she couldn't help to think the connection was obvious. Then, her teacher, instead of acting like a sane rational being and perhaps asking how come his father showed up so late, decided to challenge him to combat.

With an expression of dumbfounded shock she watched the golden warrior concede and then both of them set out towards a more remote location. It took her a moment to gather her wits and she turned to rush after Ferrus Manus, when she felt a slender hand seize her wrist.

"Don't worry," a warm voice said. "Father will not hurt one of his sons."

She turned and faced a slender golden-haired woman. "You sound like this is an every day occurrence," she said, her voice coming out oddly high-pitched.

The woman shook her head. "Oh no, far from it actually: he's the first one to challenge father and the second to fight him. Leman was unlucky enough to have Father challenge him, instead."

"Why would any sane person do that?" Ilona squeaked. Then, in a dazed tone, she added, "There's more of him?"

She nearly sat down on the ground, had the golden-haired woman not helped her stay up.

"Come," she said. "I believe you have a lot of questions."

* * *

The new Bellatrix slowly composed herself, as Serenity meandered through the usual polite chatter. Without appearing to say anything meaningful, she had extracted the woman's name, place of birth and various other facts.

"A… bellatrix?" Ilona asked. She paused, her brow creasing in a frown and slowly her expression became focused. "If you know who I am, you must know about my powers."

Serenity shook her head. "I'm afraid I know far less than I or my father would have liked. As far as we can say, each of us controls a specific domain, like thunder or… wind, but we just don't know enough to be certain. My powers seem to be a lot less obliging when it comes to following a theme, for example," She fell silent for a moment, before asking, her expression curious, "How far have you tested your own?"

"I did my best to discover my limits," Ilona replied. "They make no sense."

Serenity nodded encouragingly, and so Ilona plunged into narrative. The Princess was surprised to find just how much the woman had tried—she clearly was not just curious, but methodical. The way she had approached her powers spoke of an orderly mind. As she listened, she formed a picture in her mind.

"You control water," Serenity said after a moment. "Not in the scientific sense, but in the sense of what people know water is."

Then, she sighed heavily. "I have nothing on the cogitator. Perhaps Father will know."

* * *

**AN:** And the next chapter will be in www. fanfiction s / 8920505 / 1 / Lovehammer-GE-Serene-Star.


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